


Ascension

by coveredbyroses, onyxcandy (coveredbyroses)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood Drinking, Bondage, Coercion, Control, Creampie, Cunnilingus, Demon Blood, Demon Dean Winchester, Dirty Talk, Doggy Style, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, F/M, Fear, Force Choking, Forced Orgasm, Handcuffs, Kidnapping, Knight of Hell Dean Winchester, Loss of Control, Non-Consensual Blood Drinking, Non-Consensual Touching, Pain, Porn With Plot, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Kissing, Torture, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-09
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2019-05-04 06:09:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 18
Words: 30,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14586672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coveredbyroses/pseuds/coveredbyroses, https://archiveofourown.org/users/coveredbyroses/pseuds/onyxcandy
Summary: Dean Winchester isn't just any Demon - He's a Knight of Hell. An ambitious knight. He wants the throne...and you by his side.Trigger Warnings for Dub-Con and Non-Con at times. Heed the warnings.





	1. Prologue

“He’s a _what?”_ you breathe into the phone.

“Demon,” Sam repeats. “Dean’s a demon.”

_Jesus Christ._

“You mean he’s possessed.”

“I dunno, maybe - but he still had the anti-possession tat when he-” He takes a breath. “When Metatron -”

You save him from finishing the sentence. “You think it was cut?”

“I dunno, but I saw the footage. I saw his eyes.” A shiver rolls through you at the imagery. You don’t want to visualize Dean with black eyes. Ever.

Your heart and stomach compete for most somersaults as Sam fills you in on the the gas station security camera find. How he’d _brutally_ murdered a guy (most likely a demon - Dean was, after all, defending himself) with the first blade - right under the fluorescent lights of the convenience store.

“I just…I just thought you should know.”

You nod against the phone, forgetting for a moment that the man can’t actually see you. “Yeah.” Your voice is low. “Thanks - thank you.”

He clears his throat; a signal that there’s more to this phone call. “I know it’s asking a lot…but I could really use your help on this.” There’s an imperceptible tremor to the low rasp of his voice.

“Sam,” you sigh. “I wouldn’t even know where to start…What about Cas?”

“That’s kind of a long story, but his grace is fading. He can’t help us.”

 _Well, shit_.

“Any leads?”

“Had a few,” he says, “but they all fell through.”

There’s a pause, only the faint static of the cell phone whirring in your ear. “I’m assuming he took the impala.”

Sam huffs a chuckle, “Of course he did. Changed the plates though.”

“Dammit,” you breathe. “Okay, well…I mean, how many '67 Chevy Impalas can there _be_ in this country?”

“More than you think, probably.” Your head tips to the side in silent agreement. _Yeah, probably…_

You let your eyes fall shut as you scrub a hand over your tired face. It looks grim, but you’re not going to give up. It had hurt like hell when he’d left you - when the mark had pushed you away. And it had nearly destroyed you when he’d died three months ago, that 2 a.m phone call forever etched in your mind. But you’re not going to give up. Not when there’s evena  _sliver_ of a chance he’s still in there. And if he's not, you’ll murder the scum that dared use Dean Winchester as a meatsuit.

“Okay,” you say. “How can I help?”

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and a very changed Dean reunite. He has a proposition for you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings for Dub-Con/Non-con

It’s been a month since Sam had called you. One month of watery leads that result in absolutely nothing. You may as well be chasing a ghost - hell, they’re easier to track than Dean. If it wasn’t for that grainy camera footage Sam had emailed you, you’d think he’d made the whole thing up.

It’s a warm Saturday night when you pull into the motel parking lot, exhausted from yet another fruitless search. After throwing the bolt, you toss your duffel on the windowside table and fall face-first onto the lumpy bed. You slip your cell from your back pocket to open your string of ongoing texts with sam.

***Nothing**

You thumb the send button before tossing the phone aside to roll to your back, scowling at the water-stained ceiling.

You bolt upright when there’s a sudden knock at the door, sliding off the mattress to retrieve your pistol from your duffel. You get a firm grip on the weapon as you silently stride to the door, peering through the tiny peephole to a car-littered parking lot. You press your lips together as a wave of dread washes over you.

Slowly and gently, you slide the deadbolt back from the latch and curl your fingers around the handle. You take a sharp breath just before swinging the door open, letting it slam against the wall as you aim the gun in front of you.

A dark-haired man and woman stand before you, they almost look related, dressed in business attire.

 _Feds?_ You think at first. But with a simultaneous blink of jet black eyes, you know the answer.

With inhuman, invisible strength, the weapon is ripped from your hands to slam against the back wall of the room. Before you can think out your next move, you’re being spun around, metal cuffs fastening around your wrists.

“Relax, it’s just a precaution.” The woman says.

The demons on either side of you get an iron grip on each arm as they lead you out the door toward a sleek black SUV.

_Shit - what the - shit!_

You jerk against your captors. If you can somehow wrench yourself out their hold, you could make a run for it - maybe.

The man speaks now, “You can stop struggling - we’re under direct orders not to harm you.”

“Orders from who?” you grit.

“Dean Winchester.”

**********

You bounce in the back seat as the vehicle rolls over the bumpy entrance to the abandoned warehouse. The moon casts an ominous pale glow over the building and cracked asphalt that seems to match your own trepidation.

Gravel crunches under your boots as you’re walked to the entrance. You don’t speak, your mind reeling with questions, desperately searching for an answer to all this.

Dean is alive, but is he still a demon? Is he here? Why did he send for you? To kill you? Surely not, he could’ve shown up himself to do that.

The old metal doors open with a deep groan to welcome you inside - and Dear Lord - the place is fucking _bustling_ with activity. Demons in attire similar to the ones escorting you right now swarm around the large space; some holding stacks of paper, some folders, some boxes.

There’s a large table directly ahead of you with black laptops set about and what looks like maps spread across the surface. It strongly reminds you of the map table back in the bunker, in the war room. You can see Sam sitting there right now, desperately trying to get a hold of you.

Flat screen monitors are fixed to cement walls, displaying views of different rooms in the building, as well as the rocky parking lot. The place buzzes with voices, some barking orders, some speaking privately amongst each other.

It’s a fucking command center.

The sea of black parts as you’re ushered through the crowd, the chatter quietening to a hushed murmur, eyes widening as they watch you pass, like you’re someone of importance.

_What the hell is going on?_

You reach a flight of stairs, nearly tripping over the cracked steps as your eyes dart around the place.

You’re turned around a corner, heading down a dark, decrepit hallway until you stop at a wide set of faded double doors. The man at your left rasps against the surface exactly five times before bringing his hand back to wait.

A total of five seconds pass before the doors click open. A lanky, short-haired blonde man stands before you, dragging blue eyes up and down your form before turning to your male escort.

“This her?”

You catch the nod as you side-eye him. The doors shut again. You sigh.

“Can you guys uncuff me, please? My arms hurt.” Neither creature acknowledges you, their gazes glued to the peeling paint on the doors. You let your head roll back on your neck in annoyed frustration, springing forward again at the sound of the door unlatching.

The blonde man steps to the side of the entrance, gesturing the three of you inside. More flatscreen TVs line the old walls and there’s an office desk straight ahead, stacked with files, papers, and a computer.

_Where do they find this shit?_

You direct your eyes further - it’s _him_.

Dean stands with his back to you, gazing out the aged, clouded window; clad in worn blue jeans and fitted leather jacket.

He turns slowly, rounding the desk as he saunters toward you.

“ _Dean_ ,” you breathe. His hair is longer, long enough to part on the side, and you’ve almost forgotten how tall he is, your eyes leveling with his chest.

“Heya, kiddo.” His voice is deeper than you remember; rough.

“I,” you start, “Sam and I - we’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

“I know.”

“You - what? You _know?_ ” You’re pissed now. “What the hell, Dean? We’ve been _killing_ ourselves over you and you’re what - hanging out with your new demon buds?” You hate how the pitch of your voice rises the angrier you get.

A hand around your arm tightens. “Watch your tone,” the female demon growls, “that’s the future _king_ you’re talking to.” Your head snaps toward her and then back to Dean. You can feel how your eyes widen.

“What?” you ask him incredulously.

He grins.

“You. You’re the king…of Hell?

He licks his lips. “Well, not yet - still just a knight at the moment.”

“What about Crowley?” Dean rolls his eyes at the mention of his rival’s name.

“He still reigns…for now. But he’ll be taken care of soon enough.”

You can’t stop the sarcastic chuckle that pushes past your lips. “So what - you’re gonna just storm the castle, take what’s _rightfully_ yours?” You ridicule dramatically. “What is this, Game of Thrones?”

The grin on Dean’s face fades to a sneer. He takes a step closer, steeling his eyes hard at yours; you stiffen.

“This ain’t a joke, sweetheart. I have the mark and I have the blade.” He twists his head to the side. “Hell is mine.”

You swallow. “Dean, come on - just come back…at least to Sam. I’ll go away, you won’t ever hear from me again - I promise.”

His grin returns, “Sweetheart, Sammy’ll be fine. I don’t want that life anymore. Got somethin’ bigger and better waitin’ for me. And you.”

You frown. “What?”

He tongues his bottom lip into his mouth. “Every good king needs a queen.”

_Oh._

You laugh nervously. “N-no. That’s not - yeah. No.” You take a breath, “Thanks, but no thanks.”

Dean blinks at you. “I wasn’t askin’, darlin’.”

You’re suddenly hot and cold at the same time. “I don’t _want_ that Dean, I don’t want any part of this - of Hell.”

He sighs. “Knew you’d fight me on this…was hopin’ you wouldn’t.” He dips his head at the demon to your left, “All right, take her up,” he mutters before turning away.

_Up? What the - up where?_

You grunt as you’re jerked around, the demon guards dragging you out of the room like a fucking prisoner. Your heart drops.

 _Shit. That’s what you are,_ you realize. _A prisoner._

_**********_

Minutes later, you find yourself cuffed to the tall wooden post of a bed, both wrists gathered together, attached to a chain fastened around the dark brown column. You lay on your side, knees curled, head resting against your outstretched upper arm.

The bed isn’t overly fancy, but it’s still an eyesore compared to the gritty, derelict condition of the dimly lit room. It’s comfortable - you idly wonder if it’s a memory foam mattress. The comforter is a navy blue, with matching pillows. Scratched and worn nightstands sit on either side of the bed, battery-powered lanterns serving as lamps.

You continue to lay there for what seems like hours, drifting in and out of consciousness.You’ve just slipped under again when a solid hand falls on your right calf.

You jerk awake, craning your head over your arm to find a smirking Dean seated at the foot of the bed.

“Dean,” you croak. “You gotta lemme go. I swear I won’t tell Sam what you’re doing…Please.”

He turns away to fix his gaze on the floor and you can see his chest expand with a heavy sigh. “You’re scared,” he rumbles. “I get that. Change is always a little uncomfortable.”

His head is still tilted downwards as he turns his face to yours. “But you’re gonna be great, baby. You were _made_ for this.”

It’s at this point that you think you’ve been a little too trusting, you’d allowed yourself to get sucked into the notion that this is really your Dean - but it can’t be. Not the way he’s talking, not with these…grandiose plans of ruling Hell. That’s not him.

You swallow. “Dean’s dead, isn’t he?” You breathe out a shaky breath, “Who are you?”

He smiles a little too bright; teeth gleaming. He shakes his head before letting it roll back to speak to the ceiling. “Why is that everyone’s first assumption?” he mutters. “Can’t a guy just…change?”

Silence.

“Fine,” he breathes, moving to kneel at the side of the bed. He shrugs off his jacket, fingers moving to unfasten the first two of buttons on his maroon shirt, tugging it to the side to reveal his intact anti-possession tattoo.

“It’s all me in here, baby.” You raise your eyes from the inked sigil on his chest to his face. “It’s the mark,” he explains. “Wouldn’t let me die…The uh, resurrection process seems to have a side effect though.” His mouth curls in a half-smile as he blinks onyx eyes at you, “It turns your soul black.”

You’re surprised at the whimper that pushes its way from your throat. You’ve seen demons before - you’ve fought them. But this isn’t any demon. This is Dean.

“Shhh,” he tucks a chunk of hair behind your ear, “s’okay. You just gotta get used to this…to me. That’s all.”

He gets a hand on your hip, pushing until you roll to your back. Your breath catches in your throat as his hand smoothes down your thigh.

_Shit._

“Dean, just-” The hand is sliding up now, over your hip, your stomach - to settle against your breast. “Stop, you can’t - shit, just let me go!”

He drags his hand up to curl loosely around your throat, a finger slipping up to press against your cheek, turning your face to his.

“You had anyone since me?” The question is threatening.

You close your eyes, shaking your head against his fingers. “No,” you whisper.

“Good.”

The masculine scent of him is intoxicating; if this were any other situation, you’d pull him on top of you. But this is not any other situation.

You crack your eyes open to see him smiling wolfishly - and _fuck -_ you’re getting wet.

No, no this can’t happen.

“Please, I’m really tired,” you stall. “C-can I just…sleep on it?” You draw in a shaky inhale, “It’s just a lot to take in.”

His eyes are green, but they're dark; lust-blown.

He purses his lips in thought, “Tell ya what,” he cocks his head at you, “Here’s what we’re gonna do - I’m gonna check your panties. If you’re dry - I’ll leave ya to go to sleep.”

No, you don’t like where this is going.

“If you’re _not_ dry…then I’m gonna hafta do somethin’ about it,” he shrugs.

Shit, no - you’ve already lost then.

You’re powerless to stop him with your hands restrained so you try to convince him instead.

“No, Dean - _don’t!”_

He pulls his hand from your neck, smirking as he raises up to sit on the edge of the mattress, just in front of your bent knees. The hunter-turned-demon twists to face you, smiling darkly as he trails his hand down the length of your body.

“Sounds like you don’t want me to touch you…afraid of what I’ll find?”

Your heart pounds, stomach lurching at his words.

You whimper as he pinches the button of your jeans open, screwing your eyes shut at the inevitable, and the sound of your zipper slowly dragging down is almost deafening.

Your hips jerk when rough fingers dip under the elastic of your panties, gliding straight into your slick.

“ _Holy fuck_ ,” he groans. “You been walkin’ around with this all night?”

You don’t answer; you know if you do, it’ll come out a moan - and you refuse to give him the satisfaction, the win.

He pulls his hand away, prompting you to open your eyes to Dean closing full lips around his thumb. He locks mossy eyes with yours as he slips his hand back into your panties, and your hips _lurch,_ leaving the mattress as he presses the wet digit directly into your clit.

“Stop!” you squeal, “Jesus, please just stop…”

“Relax, darlin’. S’not like this is the first time I’ve touched you.” _Yeah, but not like this…_

“No, this isn’t-” Two thick fingers prod at your entrance. “Nnngh - this is wrong!” you gasp. He leans forward, watching your face as he pushes in, your sopping cunt eagerly sucking the digits inside. You push against the intrusion, but the action only forces his fingers in deeper.

“Stop fighting it, honey,” Dean croons. “You’re already all twitchy for me…gonna make you feel better.”

You crane your neck forward and liquid heat hurtles through you at the site of his big hand between your legs. He’s pumping slow, careful to keep his thumb firmly pressed against your tingling nub.

Strangled noises tumble past your lips as he works your slick channel. “Damn, sweetheart,” he breathes, “you feel great around my fingers, can’t wait to sink my cock in you.” Your pussy seizes.

He bends further at the waist as he lifts his thumb from you. He dips his head and you moan embarrassingly loud as he sucks your clit into his mouth, capturing it between his teeth. You think you see the corners of his lips spread in a smirk, but you don’t have time to dwell on it, because then he’s using his entire _arm_ to thrust his fingers into you. He quickens his pace to the point where his whole body is rocking with his efforts and his fingers feel like a burning blur inside you.

Your head falls back at the frightening pleasure of it all, you’re going to come soon - and you’re terrified; he’s brutally taking something you _don’t_ want to give him. But you can’t help it, he’s making you feel so fucking _good_.

Dean pulls back. “You’re so close, baby,” he pants against your flesh. “I can fuckin’ feel it.” You keen.

“Now,” his voice is starting to sound distant. “I want you to look at me when you come, y’hear me?” You close your eyes in an act of defiance. He forces his plunging fingers a little deeper as he shifts over you to cup his free hand under your jaw. “Look at me,” he orders, his voice impossibly close. His hand leaves your chin to to give two solid thumps against the side of your face, popping your eyes open.

“Atta girl…” He brings his thumb down, hard against your clit.

And then his eyes flood with black ink, and you can't stop it - you come with _violent_ intensity, your walls squeezing and rolling almost painfully around his jerking fingers.

It’s one of the longest orgasms you can remember, and you think you may have briefly passed out from it.

“See?” he says, slipping his glistening fingers from you. “Better right?”

You whine.

The mattress shifts as Dean leaves you, bending down to press a warm kiss to your temple. “Sleep, baby... ” he says.

“We got a lot to discuss tomorrow.”


	3. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some new information clues you in on just how far Dean has fallen...

You’re rocking back and forth, it’s pitch black - you can’t see anything. You’re not even sure if you’re standing or not. There’s a distant voice calling your name…

“…Come on sugar, rise and shine.”

Your eyes flutter open to dingy walls illuminated in a pale glow…

Your stomach drops in dreaded recognition of where you are. You’re rocking again, and that’s when you notice the massive hand on your upper arm - Dean’s hand. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed again, just like last night when he-

Shit. You gotta get out of here.

“Leave me ‘lone…” you slur, prompting him to shake harder.

“C’mon, you’ve slept enough. Let’s go, princess - we got work to do.”

You roll to your back, batting his hand away as you go to rub at your eyes until you see a kaleidoscope of colors. You groan as you sit up, relief flooding you as you realize you hands are no longer restrained.

“I’m going home, Dean.” you inform him. “Imma let you go play Medieval Times or whatever…I’m done, don’t want any part of this.” You move to swing your legs over the bed when he clamps a hand down on your jean-clad thigh. You grit your teeth, slowly turning your head to glare burning holes into his.

He doesn’t look at you, just smirks at the grimy wall as he brushes a thumb back and forth over your thigh.

“You’re smart, kiddo. S’what I’ve always liked about you - I mean, besides your bangin’ body…” He rolls his head toward you then, giving you the once-over. You roll your eyes.

He slides his hand up -

_Fuck. No, not again-_

He gives you a playful squeeze, “Relax, I don’t have time right now.”

“Yeah,” you scoff, “me either…So, see ya.” You go to stand, quickly realizing you can’t - an invisible force holding you against the bed.

“What is it gonna take,” Dean drawls, “for you to understand that you’re not goin’ anywhere?”

You feel your blood simmering to a boiling rage. You’re just about to _really_ let him have it when the door _slams_ open, and you let out a breath as the unseen grip releases you.

 

A short, stocky man with short brown hair and equally brown eyes stumbles in the room, wild-eyed and visibly flustered. He immediately casts his eyes down as he speaks,

“I’m sorry to interrupt, sir - but there’s been an ambush and-”

“God- _dammit!”_ Dean roars. And then you hear the faint scuffling and screaming of battle. The patch of heat on your thigh tingles and cools as he pulls his hand away, marching toward the open door. He stops in his tracks, turning toward the smaller demon,

“Cuff her,: he orders, jerking his head back toward you.

“N - no!” you yelp, your voice shaking with renewed fear; not only are you trapped here with a bone-chillingly dark reincarnation of your lost love, but there’s a fucking _war_ happening within earshot right now. And he wants you cuffed to the damned bed?

 _“NO!”_ you’re screaming now. “You can’t _leave_ me here!”

But Dean is already gone out the door, his lackey awkwardly shuffling toward you. He looks at you almost pleadingly; he’s afraid too. Your body slumps in a sigh, are you seriously feeling bad for a fucking demon?

Disgruntled, you hold your wrists out to the man, and he visibly relaxes at your cooperation.

“You new around here?” you ask. The demon avoids your eyes as he nods. “Not as a demon,” he clarifies, clicking the cuffs into place, “but as a Knight’s Guard.”

You let out a huff. “That’s a big responsibility,” you comment.

“Yes, my lady,” he agrees. Your face hardens at the formal title.

“I’m _not_ your lady,” you bitterly inform him. “I’m not _his_ lady, I’m not -” You take a breath to calm yourself. “I’m just trying to get outta here.” The man’s soft brown eyes meet yours. “Ya think you could help me out?” you give him a charming smile, “I can assure your safety.” Lie. But it’s worth a shot.

“I - I’m sorry. I can’t.”

“Why not?” The stupidity of the question clicks in your brain as soon as it leaves your mouth.

The chain of your cuffs clinks as you shift your hands in your lap. “You don’t have to worry about him,” you affirm. “I’ve got connections,” you lie again. “Just tell me how to get out of here, and no harm will come to you. I promise.” It really disturbs you how _good_ you are at lying sometimes.

“I can’t,” the demon argues “it’s just too risky-”

“Why are you on this side?” you ask suddenly, genuinely curious. “Dean has _got_ to be way more of a pain in the ass than Crowley could ever be.”

“Self-preservation,” he shrugs. “That’s why the majority of us have changed loyalty.” You blink at him quizzically. “Sir Dean…” he starts, and you cringe inwardly at the preposterous title, “he has the Mark of Cain _and_ he has the First Blade…He won’t be stopped - he _can’t_ be stopped.” You press your lips into a thin line, staring at the glinting metal of your cuffs as you process the demon’s words. He has a point, a very valid point.

“Not to mention the man has a thirst for blood that I’ve never seen before…and I was born during the dark ages.” Your eyes snap back up at that, blood cold.

“What do you mean?”

**********

Your stomach is twisted in knots as the stout demon sits beside you, filling you in on all of your former flame’s past…activities. Before Dean had died, you and Sam had both noticed the Mark’s influence on Dean’s killing methods. You’d seen him decapitate a vampire with the _blunt_ edge of a blade, seen him empty an entire _magazine_ into a shifter. And now, it seems he’s picked up a taste for torture.

If this demon - Thomas, you’d learned - is telling you the truth, Dean Winchester is now a _monster_. According to Thomas, he’d once _disembowled_ a demon - in front of a live _audience,_ for double-crossing him. The body may not have belonged to the traitor, but the pain very much had.

Other demons, Thomas had said, had lost fingers and limbs - all for different reasons, but all branching from their refusal to pledge loyalty to the knight seeking the crown.

And now you understand why this particular henchman won’t help you.

“He _will_ be King,” Thomas says. “It’s just a matter of when…And if he wants _you_ as his queen, that will happen too. There is no stopping this.” The demon’s voice is low; foreboding.

You’re frantically shaking your head, “No…” you mutter at the man. “No!” your voice rises with your panic. “I _refuse_ to _-_.”

Your eyes go wide at Dean’s towering, _blood-soaked_ figure in the doorway. The demon looks at you, puzzled before slowly twisting to look behind him.

“I asked you to cuff her,” Dean sneers, “not make friendship bracelets.” Your chest clenches at the man’s fear.

“It was my fault,” you cover, “I had questions - I’m sorry.”

Dean cocks his head as he steps forward, wet crimson glistening against his cheek in the dim light. “No questions for _me_ , sugar?” His smirk is dark, he’s toying with you - he knows you’re afraid.

You shake your head, “Hadn’t come to me yet.” Your eyes flick to the demon guard. “I’m sorry I kept you, Thomas.” You give him a kind smile.

“Ohh,” Dean marvels, his voice uncannily high. “You’re on a first-name basis now…” he tucks his chin to his chest, looking at you from under his brows, “that didn’t take long.”

“Dean, please-”

“Go on - get outta here, Sparky.” Dean waves, “There’s quite a mess to clean up.”

Thomas dips his head in a curt nod, “Yes, your Grace.”

You’d roll your eyes at that if you weren’t completely petrified.

“Dean,” you whisper, “Oh god, what have you become?”

He straightens his head at you, taking the last few steps to the bed where he kneels down to level hisface with yours. You can _smell_ the blood on him - his tongue darts out to lick some of it from his lips. You have to swallow down the bile.

His face splits into a too-wide grin. “I’m the king, baby. I’m _your_ king.”

You close your eyes. “I don’t want a king.” You tell him. Your face threatens to collapse into a sob as you open your eyes. “I just just want to go home…” You’re well aware of how pitiful you sound, but you don’t care. You have to get back, have to get to Sam.

Dean crowds into you suddenly, grabbing a fistful of your hair to pull you forward as he crushes your mouth to his, thrusting his tongue between your lips in a wet, salt-iron kiss. You try to pull away, but his iron grip in your hair holds you steady. You try to push against him, but he’s super-humanly strong and your wrists are bound. So you’re forced to simply whimper into his mouth as he repeatedly licks into yours.

You’re left breathless when he finally does release you, smiling dark; ivory teeth a stark contrast to the smeared scarlet of his face.

“You _are_ home.”


	4. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You lose your temper. It doesn't end well.

To your relief, Dean had left you alone again. Your stomach turns a little at the taste of someone else’s blood on your lips. Demon blood. You frantically rub at your mouth with the back of your hand, but you still feel tainted. You need a shower.

And a phone; you desperately want to talk to Sam. He has to know what his brother is up to - he’s the only one who can stop him. Cas too. Sam had said his grace was fading but it isn’t all gone…is it? You fall to your back across the bed, bouncing against the mattress. You’re stuck here, you fully understand you aren’t getting out alone - but surely you can swipe a cell off one of these demons. You just need to get out of the room…

Your hands are cuffed in front of you, but they aren’t attached to the bed. You raise up, sliding off the bed to make your way towards the door. You get a grip on the handle and turn - it’s locked. Shocking. Your eyes scan the room, looking for anything small enough to pick a lock. It’s hard to see in the dim light, but something glints against the dirty floor. You shuffle towards it - oh holy shit - is that a paperclip?You squat down to pick it up.

It is. _Maybe luck is on your side after all…_

There’s a clicking at the door. _Or not._

You quickly slip the bent wire into your right fist, scrambling for the bed. You’re on your side, cuffed hands tucked under your chin when the door creaks open. Your eyes are closed, pretending to be asleep when boots thump toward you. There’s a soft thud of something landing on the blankets beside you.

“I know you’re not asleep.” Dean rumbles. You sigh, pushing yourself up until your legs are dangling over the mattress, getting an eyeful of black cotton stretching across a broad chest.

“Got you some clothes.” He flicks a pointed finger toward the simple t-shirt, matching bra and panties, and blue jeans strewn across the navy comforter.

You crane your neck to meet his eyes. His face is clean again, hair damp - he’s showered, prompting you to quirk an eyebrow at him. “Can I take a shower first?”

He smirks. “Sure thing, honey.” You scoop the clothes up between your arms and he backs away, giving you space to rise off the bed. He leads the way and you take a breath, almost as if breathing in fresh air, as you step out of the bedroom; your holding cell.

Dean leads you down a series of hallways before turning to yet another paint-faded door. You follow him inside to a gritty room lined with filthy porcelain sinks and shower stalls. _This place must’ve been a fire station once upon a time._

“This is disgusting,” you remark.

“Yeah...It ain’t The Hilton, but it’ll get the job done,” he shrugs.

You mouth curls in disgust. Your eyes scan the room for an at least _partially_ clean area to set your clothes down. Dean notices, “Oh - here.” He turns to the right, toward a twin set of metal lockers. He opens the first with a high-pitched squeal, motioning for you to set them inside. A stack of towels sits at the bottom and you take one before slamming the metal doors shut. Dean moves to the second locker, reaching inside to retrieve a bar of soap and a cheap razor.

He sets the toiletries on top of the towel in your arms. You narrow your eyes at him - he smiles. “I dunno how long it’s been…and I want you nice and smooth for me.”

Panicked heat floods your belly. “What?” you choke.

“Last night?” he reminds you. “That was just a teaser.” You can sense the blood draining from your face.

_What is this? Is he threatening you? Trying to scare you?_

“You know,” you narrow your eyes at him. “If you’re that damned horny, you could always just pick up the nearest bar slut.”

“Been there, done that,” he replies with a roll of his eyes. “Boring.” You direct a disgusted scoff his way, turning your head toward the peeling walls.

“I like a good challenge.”

You visibly harden at that. “I am NOT a fucking challenge, you s-”

“There was a time when you weren’t,” he interrupts. “Back when you _wanted_ to fuck me.”

“Oh,” you chirp. “You mean before you dumped me?” His smarmy grin fades. “Yeah,” you agree. “I wanted to then.

He finds his smile again. “Well,” he drawls. “I’m taking you back.” His smile widens in a way that makes you want to kick him the junk. He spreads his arms wide, “Welcome, home honey.”

You never have been very good at controlling your temper and you recognize the snap in your brain when it happens, but you can’t stop your body as you lunge forward; bringing your metal-enclosed wrists up to slap him hard across the face. The force of the blow doesn’t even budge him, but the sharp crack echoes off the old walls. In your rage, you hadn’t noticed the paperclip falling from your fist to faintly clatter against the grimy tile.

You swallow as Dean frowns at object, crouching down to inspect it. He gets the wire between a thumb and forefinger, turning it around to examine the thing like he’s never seen one before.

The bolt of his jaw bulges and then he’s slowly raising furious black eyes to yours from under his brows. He keeps his soulless gaze trained on you as he rises to his full, looming height.

A giant hand suddenly seizes you by the throat, spinning you to slam you against a sink; you groan as pain spreads across your lower back.

“Where’d ya get it?” Dean lifts his chin in a dominating gesture. His fingers press into the sides of your throat when you don’t answer. “Found it-” you choke, “on the - floor.”

“Hmm.” He muses. “So it couldn’t have been from Thomas.” His fingers press harder. _“Right?”_

“N-no,” you manage. You bring your hands up to tug at the bigger hand on your throat. It doesn’t move.

“You know better than to lie to me, don’t you?” You nod to the best of your ability against his grip. “You can smart off to me all you want, but I will NOT tolerate being lied to,” he growls. You can feel the blood collect under your cheeks, your face reddening at the deprivation of oxygen.

“Good.”

You slink to the dirty floor, gulping in lungfuls of air as he finally releases you. He squats to your level, grabbing your left fist to bring your hands to his his chest where he deftly unlocks the handcuffs.

You immediately curl your sore wrists to your own chest, coughing as you rub at the red, tender lines circling the flesh.

He gathers you in his muscled arms, drawing you to him as his presses a surprisingly affectionate kiss into your heated forehead. “Take a nice shower, sweetheart. You’ll feel better afterwards.”

You continue to sit there, on the cold, dirty tile as Dean’s boots rasp out of the room.

**********

You take your time in the shower, remaining under the uneven spray even after the water runs cold. Your throat still hurts, reminding you of Dean’s unforseen aggression. You’d known Dean was dangerous; had heard the horror stories, had even seen it to some extent, but now you’ve experienced it. If you’re not careful, you’re going to die out here.

The attack is still fresh on your mind, you don’t dare do anything else to get on Dean’s bad side. So you don’t pursue your intention to steal a cell phone. If Dean doesn’t want you contacting anyone, you won’t - for now. You need to gain his trust first, then you’ll plan an escape.

Once fully dressed, you comb your fingers through your wet hair, brushing out the tangles as best as you can.

You’ve just finished lacing up your boots when there’s a knock at the door. You get a shaky grip on the handle, suck in a deep breath as you turn and pull-

It's Thomas. 

“His Grace has sent me to-”

“Tell me it wasn’t you,” you whisper.

He tilts his head. “I’m sorry, I d-”

You grab him by his suit jacket, jerking him in the room before clicking the door shut. “The paperclip!” you hiss.

Thomas’ eyes dart toward the door, then back to yours. He leans toward you, “You found it?”

Your jaw drops, eyes going comically wide with a face that says _are you freaking kidding me?_

“You left it on the _floor?!_ What if I hadn’t found it, what if-” You take a breath. “What if _he_ had found it? I mean - do you _want_ to die?”

Confusion settles over his face. “I had to be discreet…You said you had connections, didn’t you? That I’d be protected?”

You close your eyes and work your jaw in frustration. “I did, but I can’t help you while I’m trapped here - especially if you get yourself busted. He’s already suspicious.”

A flicker of anxiety crosses the demon’s eyes before he simply nods.

“His Grace summons you to his office,” he informs you after a moment, changing the subject.

You smile grimly, “Lead the way.”

**********

Sunlight filters in through the fogged glass of the window as you enter the room, reminding you that it’s still daylight. You’ve lost all sense of time since your confinement.

Dean is bent at the waist, hands braced against the desk as he stares intently at the computer monitor. A demon is at his side, speaking lowly to him, an index finger darting at different points on the screen. Dean nods briefly before dismissing him with the wave of a hand. His eyes flicker to yours as he senses your presence, straightening before aiming an icy glare at Thomas.

“Leave us.” You shiver at the rough gravel of his voice.

Your demon escort gives a curt nod before turning on his heels, leaving you. The door has barely shut before Dean is rounding the desk, sauntering toward you until he’s close enough for you to feel the heat radiating off of him.

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” he says, tucking your hair behind your ear. You flinch at his touch, casting your eyes downward. He hooks a finger underneath your chin, tilting your head up to his. “You don’t need to be afraid of me.” His voice is soft, and for a minute, you think this is the old Dean. The human Dean.

You blink at him; _how can you not be afraid of him?Especially after what happened back in the shower room._

“You _hurt_ me,” you whisper.

He strokes his fingers over the yet-to-form bruises on your neck. “I know,” he admits. “I’m sorry, I just…you have to understand - I can’t lose you.” Your mind reels at his softness. He was so _menacing_ before. _How can he just switch gears like that?_

You bring your hand to his, pushing it away. “You’re not giving me a choice, Dean. You can’t take away my free will and expect me to want to stay…”

He releases a heavy sigh, “ You call it 'taking away your free will'. I call it…giving you a _new_ will, a new _purpose.”_ He runs his hands up your arms, “I’m not taking anything away, I’m only replacing it with something better.”

You shake your head slowly, “You can’t _do_ that - you don’t have the _right_ -”

“Shhh…” He presses a finger to your lips, sliding it down to stroke back and forth along the bottom curve. “It’s just gonna take time,” he says. “I can give you that. I can give you everything.” You stay silent; there’s nothing you can say, there’s no arguing. You aren’t going to convince him to let you leave.

“Where are you going?” you finally ask, voice small.

“On a…mission, I guess you could say. I won’t be gone long, a day at the most.” You nod. “But I need to know I can trust you.” He tucks his chin to his chest, the warning evident in his eyes. “Can I do that? Can I trust you to stay put?”

You hesitate before nodding, reminding yourself that you need to gain his trust.

“Good,” he smiles. It’s a nice smile. Dean’s smile. His mouth suddenly droops downward in a frown, “You must be starving - how ‘bout I get ya somethin’ ta eat.” Your stomach grumbles in agreement.

“Yeah - yes, that’d be great. Thank you.”

“You n’ me, kid,” he breathes. “We’re gonna have it all.”

You smile outwardly while trepidation swirls deep in your gut.

You _have_ to get to Sam.

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean has a gift for you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Trigger Warnings for Dub/Non-Con

It’s weirdly normal; you and Dean sitting opposite each other at the old office desk, digging into greasy burgers. It wasn’t too long ago that this was taking place back at the bunker, at the map table. With Sam.

Sam.

He must be losing his shit by now, trying to track you down. You hope he stops, hope he gives up. Before he gets himself killed.

You admittedly feel better after dinner, full and sated.And energized - your mind feels awake in a way it hadn’t before. Awake enough to maybe focus on a new escape plan…

You mindlessly rise to dispose of your trash when Dean’s gruff voice breaks through the silence,

“I got something for you. Back in the room.” There’s a glint of… _something_ in his eye.

“What - like a gift?”

“Yep,” he says as he tosses back the last of his beer.

You swallow. You don’t think you want to know what his idea of a gift is.

“You go on n’ check it out while I finish up in here.”

_Why does that sound like an order?_

Your tongue itches to tell him off, to tell him you’ll check it out if you damned well _feel_ like it - but the ache around your throat reminds you to keep quiet.

“Okay, sure,” you say before turning on your heels to leave.

**********

There’s a single black gift bag sitting on the bed when you enter. You push the door closed, leaning against it as you stare at the object like it might come to life any second.

You make your way over to the bed, flopping down on the comforter as you lean over to peer inside the mystery bag. You toss out the crinkly black tissue paper, letting them flutter somewhere behind you and then -

Lingerie. Of course it’s fucking lingerie.

You screw your eyes shut, gritting your teeth in utter annoyance. You pick the lacy pieces up, letting them dangle in your hand. It’s a bra and panty set. Black lace. There was a time when you’d be all over this, you’d be eager to try them on. But not now. Not in this scenario.

You toss the garments aside, picking the bag up to crumple it in your hands when something else catches your eye: a lone yellow sticky note, stuck to the bottom. You peel it away, lifting it to read Dean’s scribbled handwriting -

~HAVE THIS ON THIS ON BY 9~

_Another order. He doesn’t want a queen. He wants a goddamned sex slave. An accessory._

You feel the low simmer of anger building in your gut, but the memory of Dean’s hand tight around your neck quickly extinguishes the heat. You don’t even know what time it is now - Dean had brought the food in right at seven o’clock…which means it’s probably ten or fifteen til.

_Shit._

_**********_

You give yourself one last look in the warped mirror - you feel so fucking cheap. You throw your t-shirt back on - There. That feels better, at least that gives you a _little_ modesty. And you’re not defying him…technically you have it on.

_Fuck. You need to talk to Thomas. Maybe he can distract Dean a little…_

You pad to the door, cracking it open just a sliver -

Dean. _Shit, how long has he been standing there?_

“Where ya goin’ sweetheart?”

“I um…I hafta pee.” He doesn’t know you stopped by the restroom on the way back to the room.

He thumps his palm against the wooden door, pushing it open so he can see you in the light. He frowns as he raises an eyebrow at you. “Did you not get the instructions?”

You back away, showcasing your bare legs. “I am!” you assure him. “I just put my shirt on over it…I got cold,” you laugh nervously.

He draws his full lip in to catch between his teeth as he sweeps his eyes over you. He grunts. “Can’t have you cold, now can we?”

 _Shit-fuck-shit._ Familiar heat gathers between your legs at his lusty gaze. _No,no,no. You can’t do this. Get it together!_

“I really have to pee…please?”

Disappointment washes over his face, but Dean steps back turning to walk you down the dimly lit hallway. He stops about halfway, just outside a narrow door. He steps to the opposite side of the corridor, turning to lean against the wall, folding his arms across his chest.

“Dean,” you start. “I think we’ve both established that I’m not going anywhere - you can trust me…remember?”

“Oh I know I can,” he grins. His teeth almost glow in the dull light. “Now,” he flicks a hand toward you, “hurry up.”

Deflated, you turn to enter the small bathroom, clicking the door shut behind you, tipping your head back to lean defeatedly against it. There are no windows in the room, nowhere to escape. And nothing that could be used as a weapon. And Dean is right outside. _Okay, last resort -_

You try to make the thud as loud as possible as you throw yourself to the floor. You’ve just shut your eyes when you hear boots rasping outside, and then the door is swinging open -

“What the hell?” Dean grumbles above you. He rolls your head in his hands, lightly slapping against your cheeks to rouse you. You feel his hand slide down to your neck to press two fingers against your pulse point.

The faucet creaks just before the sound of running water -

You have to give it to yourself - you’re doing a tremendous job of not flinching when cold wet splashes over your face.

“Damn, ” Dean muses. You struggle to read his tone when -

“Oh well, guess I can just fuck ya in here.” And then hands are tugging at your t-shirt - _Shit, no!_

You bolt upright, almost cracking your forehead against his as you go, but he catches you by the shoulders. He brushes wet chunks of your hair out of your face, squatting for the second time today to sneer at you as he cups you under the jaw.

“Did ya _really_ think I was that stupid?” He tilts his head in question, “Hmm? Or are _you_ that stupid?”

“I dunno what you’re-”

“Your pulse doesn’t race when you’re unconscious. Nice try, though.”

You release a heavy exhale, “I’m sorry, I just…I can’t -”

“I really oughta fuck you in here you know. Right over this filthy sink. Make you watch me in the mirror.”

Your stomach drops, “No! No, _please_ don’t do that. I’m sorry okay? I just don’t _want_ to…to-”

He rolls his eyes, rising to his feet. “ _God_ , when are we gonna get past this shit?” He sighs, flicking his gaze down to you, “Get up.”

“Dean, no-”

“Get. _Up_.”

Jesus - you’re so scared, you’re practically frozen in a heap on the floor.

He folds his arms back across his chest. “I can get you up, but you ain’t gonna like it.”

You’re on your feet in a flash.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t even speak for a good five seconds - you’re starting to shake.

“You told me I could trust you.” His voice is terrifyingly low.

“Y - you can!”

“You just tried to decieve me - hell, you _did_ for about half a second.”

You’re not proud of the tiny whimper that tumbles past your lips, but you don’t have any other response for him. He isn’t wrong.

His voice softens, “Baby, how is this gonna work if I can’t trust you?”

 _That’s the point!_ You want to scream, _this isn’t going to work, so let me go the fuck home!_

You only shake your head sadly.

He jerks his head back toward the door. “Go,” he orders before dipping his head to you. “No funny business this time. Understand?”

You wordlessly nod your promise.

Your heart continues to wildly pound against your chest as you shuffle back to the bedroom. Maybe he’s right, maybe you are fucking stupid.

**********

You’re huddled under the covers when Dean strolls in the room. You have the sudden urge to fake sleep, but you’ve already learned that lesson today.

You stare at the cracked wall ahead - you don’t think you can bring yourself to look at him without falling apart.

“C’mere sweetheart, let me see ya.”

_Shit._

You push the covers off, scooting to the foot of the bed where you draw your knees up to your chin, crossing your legs at the ankles. You keep your eyes downcast as you wrap your arms around your knees in a childish protective position.

“Look at me.” You reluctantly tip your head back, craning your neck to meet his mossy gaze.

He combs thick fingers through your hair, leaning down until his forehead presses against yours, warm breath fanning across your lips.

“This wouldn’t be so hard on you if you’d just…” he takes a breath, _“cooperate.”_ His fingers move down, thumbs stroking along your jawline. “The first role of any queen,” he murmurs, “is to submit to her king.” You narrow your eyes defiantly.

He leans in for a kiss, but you jerk your head to the side at the last second, his lips catching your cheek. He gets a hand underneath your chin, finger tips painfully pressing into the hinge of your jaw, and _yanks_ your head forward -

“Lesson number one,” he growls, “ _never_ deny my touch.” And then he’s crushing his mouth to yours, squeezing your jaw until your lips part for him, thrusting his tongue in deep.

You’re angry; angry at the wetness collecting at your core as he licks into you, angry at the fire that burns underneath your skin as he takes what _he_ wants from you.

You’re left panting when finally breaks the dominating kiss, his hands moving down to the hem of your shirt. Your own hands instinctively move down to still his in a desperate attempt to prevent the inevitable - or at least delay it a little longer.

But then his hand is curling tight against your throat - and you release him as you try to take in a strangled gasp of air, bringing your hands to hover at your shoulders as you grant him control.

Your shirt is gone in a flash and he groans as he takes a step back to devour you with his hungry gaze. “Damn, honey…” he groans deep, “Knew that’d look fan-fuckin’-tastic on you.”

He brings a finger-splayed hand to press against your chest, dragging it down over the lace-covered swells of your breasts. He hooks a finger underneath the small strip of fabric connecting the cups, pulling it back to snap against you.

“Lay back for me, baby.” You hesitate. It’s one thing for him to kiss you, to touch you even, but if you obey this order - you’re his to do whatever he wants. A voice inside your head screams that you’re his anyway. Besides, he’s already fucked you with his fingers -you’ve already lost.

Silently, you let your body roll back until you’re flat against the comforter. You close your eyes, letting your arms stretch out to grip at the blankets at your sides.

Dean gets a grip on each ankle, spreading them until you know your thighs are forming a wide ‘v’. You hear him groan as the mattress creaks and dips between your legs. Cool air assaults your slick folds as he pulls your panties to the side and you don’t have a chance to brace for it when warm velvet is licking straight up your center.

“Mmm,” he rumbles, “tastes just like I remember.” Another wet stripe - and your fingers are tightening into the comforter. You hate your pussy at this moment, hate how it can’t discern a difference between this Dean and the former.

He seals full lips around your lower ones, suckling gently at the tender flesh. Your breath quickens and then - _shit._ You have to bit your lip as his tongue snakes down to your dripping opening, dipping inside.

Warm hands smooth up your shins, over your knees, and down your thighs as he licks into your heat, the stubble of his chin and jaw scraping _deliciously_ against you. He eats you just as well as he always has, and your cunt is literally weeping with joy at the sensation.

You’re not. You’re mentally cursing your traitor pussy as he devours you.

He dips his mouth down to suction around your entrance - he’s fucking _sucking_ your arousal out of you. Jesus, you can hear him _swallowing_ it down. And then two fingers are pressing hard against your neglected clit - _shit_ \- the simple contact has your body’s excitement tripling. He finds a sucking rhythm while his fingers start to rub over and over your sweet spot, increasing their pressure with every press.

And fuck- he’s moaning now, the vibrations further heightening your arousal. Sweat dampens your heated skin as he rapidly pulls your impending climax from your lower belly.

He winds you tighter and tighter, and just when you’re about to snap - he pulls away, leaving you achingly bereft - and yet a little relieved.

Before you can comprehend it, he’s flipping you to your stomach -

“Stay there,” he orders. And then the bed groans as he leaves. You pant into the covers, wondering if he’s going to leave you there, in some test of obedience - but then you hear the familiar clinking of metal.

You see the cuffs from the corner of your eye, glinting and dangling from his fingers.

“N-no!” you start, but he’s got a knee on the bed, swinging the other over your back to straddle you.

“Hands,” he grunts. You grit your teeth as you heed his command, pulling your wrists to your back. The metal pinches your skin as he quickly tightens and clicks the restraints around you.

“There’s no real purpose to this,” he admits. “I just love seeing you half naked in chains.”

You can’t stop the venom from spewing from your lips, “You fucking asshole!”

“Yeah, yeah,” he retorts, “So I’ve been told.”

You growl when he gets a grip of your panties at your hips, tugging them off your ass and down your legs. You can almost see him tossing them uncaringly behind him.

It’s strange for you to feel so shamefully exposed around him, but then this isn’t the man you love - not anymore.

Dean jostles you against the bed as he moves above you and then a pillow is being stuffed under your hips, leaving your ass propped high in the air.

You yelp as a big hand cracks sharply against your ass before rubbing over the sting. “I should spank you raw for your little incident back there - hell, for _both_ incidents.”

“No, please don’t…” you whine.

“Don’t worry, honey - I won’t - not this time anyway…you wanna know why?”

“Why?” you breathe.

“Because I’m a _forgiving_ king.”

You don’t believe that for a fucking second -

But, almost _automatically_ , you hear yourself thanking him.

And then there’s a clinking sound - that isn’t coming from your cuffs - and then the sound of a zipper.

You tense as two fingers swipe up and down your folds before slowly sinking in, wasting no time in quickly pumping in and out. It should hurt, the way he’s roughly thrusting the digits into you, but your cunt eagerly - and _wetly_ \- welcomes the intrusion.

You let out a heavy breath when he withdraws his fingers, and then he’s fitting his knees in between yours, preventing you from closing them. You don’t have time to register the wide press of his cock against you before he’s pushing in, slowly splitting you wide over his thickness.

And you know he’s watching - watching how your outer lips spread over his length, hugging around him as he advances. You hate how the stretch burns so fucking _good_ ; how he’s not even fully inside, but still stroking at _all_ the right spots.

You know he knows what it’s doing to you, going this slow. He knows how its making you feel, knows how it’s making your eyes roll back in your skull.

You breathe out a shuddering breath when you feel his hips press into your ass, and he gives a tiny thrust, letting you know that you’re now fully impaled on him.

He fits his hands around your hips, holding you steady as he slicks out to the tip - only toroughly snap back in, the force of it rocking your body forward up the comforter.

“Damn, baby…” Dean groans. “You’re nice and wet and _tight_ for me, huh?” You groan out an inchoherent response.

He rocks back - you can feel your walls gripping him as he moves, trying to hold him deep inside. He tightens his fingers around you as he jerks forward. “Fuck, this is a great view - I oughtta take a picture.”

“Nnngh - no!” you grit. You barely register his deep chuckle before he’s increasing the pace into long, deep, fluid strokes.

“Shiiit,” he moans as he fucks into you, steadily accelerating his speed with every wet thrust. Electric heat zips through you every time he bumps into your g-spot and you’re clenching your teeth painfully tight to keep the noises at bay.

He stills, leaning over you until you can feel the material of his t-shirt brushing against your knuckles. He presses a chaste kiss into the sweat-dampening crook of your neck and then, without warning, he’s _fiercely_ hammering into you in a way he never has before.

 _“Shit! Dean!”_ you shriek.The power behind the thrusts is frightening - and for a moment you worry he might literally split you in two.

Your cheek burns from the repeated rubbing friction over the blankets and your neck aches from the strain of keeping its position - but he’s quickly working an orgasm out of you, the jolting force of his pistoning hips grinding your clit deliciously into the firm pillow underneath you.

The slick, fleshy slapping sound of his skin against yours fills your ears as you tremble underneath the iron cage of his jerking bulk.

“Oh, _goddd!”_ Your sobs are muffled against the comforter as brutally plunges into you over and over and over.

“That’s it baby,” he pants. “Just let go and I can make ya feel so fuckin’ good.” There’s probably a hidden meaning in his statement, but you’re far too gone to care.

 _“Hnnngh!”_ you keen. You curl in on yourself as he ratchets the pleasure higher and higher until nothing else exists, your entire universe focusing in on his wildly pumping shaft and the indescribable pleasure it’s punching into you.

Dean shoves a hand underneath your tensing belly to rub at your clit -

“C’mon, baby…c’mon!” The rough baritone of his voice soaks into your skin, into your _bones_ and with a piercing _shriek,_ you clamp down on him, your walls rippling and convulsing around his jack-hammering length.

“G-goddamn! _Fuck!”_ Dean shouts, cock pulsing as he spills into you. He takes a moment before he pulls out of you, and you can feel the hot, sticky mess burgeoning from your gaping opening, slicking down to stain the pillow.

There’s a click as the cuffs disengage around your wrists and then his hands are back on your hips, helping you to flop over onto your back. He smoothes away the wet locks of your hair sticking to your sweaty cheeks before pressing a lingering kiss to the clammy flesh.

There’s a low murmuring of words like “sleep” and “in the morning”. And then you hear the faint sound of a door latching closed before you succumb to darkness.

 


	6. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean leaves on a mission, but not before throwing you another curveball.

A rasp at the door yanks you to full consciousness, your body heaving up on its own in panicked alarm. You groan as you bring a hand up to scrub over your sleep-swollen eyes and cheeks. The rasping continues; more urgently now.

“Comin’…I’m comin’,” you grumble. You swing your legs over the side of the tangled comforter, suddenly reminded that you’re nude from the waist down and your thighs are blotted with the dried, tacky leftovers of last night’s events. You shift uncomfortably as you scan the room for your jeans.

You find them right where you left them, in a bundled blue heap just in front of the rickety dresser. You quickly tug them on, leaving them unbuttoned while ducking into your t-shirt. All the while the headache inducing banging on the door persists.

“Christ!” you curse, one hand on the doorknob while the other fastens your jeans. You swing the door open, revealing a very nervous Thomas. 

“What is it?” 

“His Grace wishes—”

“You can tell ‘His Grace’ that he can go fuck himself,” you spit, slamming the door in the demon’s face, but his muffled voice carries on,

“I’m afraid I can’t do that…I really must insist that you allow me to escort you to his office.” 

You’re leaned against the closed door, eyes closed as you release a deflated breath of defeat. You feel for Thomas, you don’t know why, but you do. And you wouldn’t be able to live with yourself if something happened to him because of your temper.

You crack the door open, “Did he tell you what he wants?” 

“No.”

“Fine.” You make sure to slam the door behind you to release some of the rage burning hot under your skin.

“He’ll be leaving within the hour,” Thomas says, matching your strides, “if that’s any consolation.” 

You steel your gaze ahead, work your jaw, “I’d rather it was  _me_ leaving,” you retort. Thomas gives you a look, but doesn’t offer anything back, just marches silently beside you down the derelict halls until you reach the all-too-familiar double doors of Dean’s ‘office’.

The demon knocks twice before a deep, grumbling voice orders you to enter. Thomas simply opens the door, allowing you to step inside before closing it behind you, leaving you alone with the soulless creature you had once called the love of your life.

He sits behind the desk, leaning back in the chair, bulging arms crossed over his chest,  _smirking_  at you.

“Sleep well?” 

“Fuck you.”

Dean chuckles low, rakes a hand through his hair—and god, even the gleaming white of his exposed teeth is pissing you off. He leans forward, gets his crossed-again forearms on the scratched wood of the desk, settling his weight down on them.

He holds his smile, dips his head a little,“Nice of you to offer, but I gotta get goin’ soon.” 

You cross your arms, jutting a hip. You don’t realize you’re clenching your teeth until you feel the pull in your temples. 

“What do you want?” you ask, voice airy with exasperation.

“Whaddyou think?” he asks, blinking black. He sniggers at your flinch. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he chuckles, “it’s just…your face. S’fuckin’ priceless.” 

“That’s nice. Can I go now?” 

It takes a few seconds, but his smile fades. He licks his lips, “I ain’t stupid. God only knows what kinda shit you’re concocting in that pretty little head. You’re just  _itchin’_  for me ta leave.” It’s your turn to smirk; he isn’t wrong, but he doesn’t need to know that.

“I’m not stupid either. I’m surrounded by your demon minions—I’d have to be insane to even  _try_  to escape.”  _That’s good, rack up that trust._

“Hmm,” he grunts, rumbly-deep. “You tried to deceive me, just yesterday,” he reminds you from under his brows. “Did ya think I was just gonna let that go?” 

“Wasn’t last night punishment enough?” you fume, pushing your way through the humiliating memory. 

“Last night?” Dean echoes, “Oh, sweetheart…last night wasn’t a punishment,” he says, smug. 

“No?” you challenge, “Sure as hell felt like it.” 

“Did it feel like it when you were coming on my cock?” He says the words slowly, complacency evident in his voice.

Your face flushes hot at the memory. The fucking  _bastard_ , of course he’d hit you with that.

“Fine,” you concede, unable to stop your rolling eyes, “what’s the punishment then?” 

“It’s not a punishment,” he admits, “it’s more of a…distraction.” 

You blink at him, waiting for elaboration. “I ah…” he rolls the chair back, rising to his feet, tucking a hand into the front pocket of his jeans as he makes his way toward you. It’s become a regular thing, you realize; you and dean, standing in the middle of the dust-coated, cobweb-cornered, ramshackled office space, while he feeds you bullshit promises ( _threats_  even) of ruling under fire and brimstone.

“I want you to drink this.” He pulls his hand from his pocket, a clear vial of crimson liquid slanted between his index and middle fingers.

Your eyes go almost  _painfully_  wide, vivid memories of Sam’s demon blood addiction flashing behind them. Back before you and Dean were ever an item, when you were still an amateur hunter-in-training. You can still see him: red staining his lips and cheeks after succumbing to Famine; the raw  _power_  it had fed him. You can still hear his agonizing screams behind the iron door of Bobby’s panic room as he detoxed.

“I know what that is,” you whisper, the words trembling with your nerves. “No,” you croak, head frantically shaking “I can’t—I won’t!” 

“You can,” Dean nods, “and you  _will_.” 

“No!” He can’t do this, he just  _can’t_. “Sam,” you try, “remember everything that you went through? To cure him—”

“This ain’t gonna be an addiction for you, honey. Not by the time we’re through, anyway.” 

“What…what do you  _mean?_ ” 

“Shh…don’t worry,” he says, raising the vial to your quivering lips, “m’gonna take o’ you.” 

You go to step back, but Dean gets a heavy hand on the back of your head, holding you in place. 

“ _Please…”_ It’s a pitiful uttering of such a  _pointless_  word, but you try anyway, not that begging as ever helped you in your recent captivity.

The tiny glass brim meets the soft cushion of your lower lip, prompting you to stubbornly press your mouth into a thin line. He curls his fingers into your hair and  _tugs,_ causing sharp pain to web over your scalp. Your lips part in an uncontrolled gasp—and Dean takes advantage, tipping the slender container until the fluid empties against your tongue, bitter iron flooding your taste buds.

You immediately close your throat, preventing the liquid from going any farther—but then Dean gets a hand to your neck, gently rubbing at the tensed muscles until they’re forced to relax. You grimace as the blood trickles and  _burns_  down your passage, like strong whiskey. 

“There,” Dean breathes, approving. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” You blink, inhaling sharply as suddenly  _every_  sense seems to amplify; you can smell the stale dust of the room, can hear the faint echo of footsteps from somewhere far in the distance. And then  _shit_ —in a swirling blur, everything seems to  _zoom_ into focus—almost like putting on a pair of glasses for the first time after a lifetime of shitty vision. Dean gets a grip on your hips as you stagger, suddenly light-headed.

There’s a buzzing electricity zipping through your veins, like a hit of nicotine, or something  _stronger_. You’re terrified, but at the same time, you feel  _good_.

“Yeah?” Dean grins, recognizing the high.

“How…how long does this last?” 

“Not really sure,” he admits, wide shoulders lifting in a shrug, “I’ve never tasted the stuff, but considering it’s my blood, it’ll probably last a bit longer than a typical demon’s.” 

“That was—that was  _your_  blood?”

“Well…yeah,” Dean laughs. “What? You think I’d give you some random’s juice? Please, gimme a little credit.” 

“But..but you’re a  _knight_ ,” you say, dumbly.  “And you’ve got the mark—what if there’s some kind of…I dunno, residue or something? What if—”

“What if you get the urge to commit a little murder?” Dean offers, grinning bright. “I’d say that’s a plus, babydoll.” 

A sudden knock at the door pierces through your raging thoughts. “That’s for me,” Dean grumbles, “I gotta get going.” He takes a step closer, thumbs drawing circles into your denim-covered hips, “Now. I’m gonna give you the run of this wing of the building,” he says, but there’s a tilt to his voice, like he’s offering you a gift you don’t deserve. “No funny business,” he warns, chin dipped toward his chest, “And if you even  _think_  about contacting Sam? I’m gonna make Guantanamo look like a luxury resort… We clear?” 

Your hearts sinks through the buzz, settling at the pit of your stomach. 

“Crystal,” you whisper.


	7. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean's gone. Time for a plan.

You’re back on the bed, sprawled out with both arms thrown over your aching eyes. You don’t know how long it’s been, but has to be a couple of hours at least—and the high hasn’t weakened. You’d tried to sleep it off, but the thump-thump of your heartbeat pounds in your ears and the constant clacking of dress shoes against concrete reverberates through your skull.

You can still taste the bitter blood on your cottony tongue—even after you’d gulped down copious amounts of gritty faucet water—like the taste has somehow infused itself into the nerve endings.

Your stomach grumbles; you need to eat, but the stench of your musty surroundings easily squashes any semblance of an appetite.

Desperate for a distraction, you decide on a shower. You’re in dire need for one after last night anyway. You muster all of your strength into peeling yourself from the lumpy mattress, shuffling across dirt and dust as you make your way toward the door.

No migraine could ever top the skull-splitting pain that greets as you enter the hallway; the low murmuring voices of the passing demons is a condensed, pounding roar in your head—you make a mental note to search for some booze later; maybe the alcohol will dull your hypersensitive senses.

*****

You focus on the steady whir of water cascading down on you from the rusty showerhead; it helps to drown out the cluster of noises in your head, steadying your buzzing nerves—and the steaming heat slowly melts away your throbbing headache. You close your eyes, smooth your hands over your water-drenched hair. You need a new plan, but you have to be careful; meticulous to scheme under Dean’s nose.

You consider praying to Cas, but then you remember what Sam had said about his fading grace. You could broadcast an open prayer to any and all available angels—but the warehouse is warded; you wouldn’t be heard—

Shit. The demon cure. You remember the the old film reel the guys had found in the bunker. You can  _cure_  demons, sure it might be difficult with the Mark of Cain thrown in the equation, but it’s possible. Only problem is, you need purified blood, and fuck—you don’t know the incantation by heart. You can’t do it without outside help.

 _Dammit_.

The knob handles squeal as you shut the water off, and then it’s silent except for the drip-drip of excess water splattering against the grungy tile.

The floor is cold against your feet as you pad toward the filmy mirror, swiping a hand across the thin layer of steam to peer at your reflection. Your face is pale, and you half-expect your eyes to turn black at any second, but they don’t; they’re a little glassy, a little sunken in from shitty sleep and stress, but you’re relieved to find that they remain the color you were born with.

You grimace a little as you dress in the same clothes you’ve been wearing for God knows how many hours now. What you wouldn’t give for a shopping trip.

Your stomach grumbles—you  _need_  to eat. Is there even a kitchen in this godforsaken prison? You quickly finger the damp tangles from your hair before leaving. Your only plan at the moment is to find food.

*****

Dean had only given you free rein of this wing of the warehouse—and he’d meant it. When you’d try to explore further, you’d found two suited guards at the top of the stairway leading down to the command center. So instead, you’d aimlessly wandered your assigned halls, finding nothing but nondescript storage rooms and closets. You briefly wondered where this…army of demons slept before remembering that the creatures don’t have a need for it.

The effects of Dean’s blood seem to have dissipated now, the internal sounds of the building aren’t quite so booming, and you only notice your heartbeat if you really concentrate. There’s still a faint, dusty smell of the aged structure, but it’s no longer overwhelming. And your nerves have quieted to the level that forced imprisonment would expectedly bring.

You’re starving, and beyond irritated, so with a determined march, you make your way back to the posted demon guards. “Listen,” you huff, “unlike you  _monstrosities_ , I’m human and need food to survive, so if you don’t let me through—”

A clearing of a throat pauses your rant, you turn around to find Thomas standing with a grease-soaked paper bag and styrofoam cup, complete with red straw. You swivel your head back, giving the demons a pointed glare before snatching the food from Thomas’ hands.

You’re three strides into the walk back to your room when you realize the demon is following you. You freeze, whirling around to face him, “I’m perfectly capable of walking by myself, thanks,” you grit. You feel a twinge of guilt at the tone you’re directing towards him—he’s been nothing but kind to you, but you’re hungry, agitated, and you need some space.

“That you are,” Thomas replies, “but I have been assigned to your care.”

You roll your eyes, “First I’ve seen of you all day,” you retort. “Did  _His Highness_  put a little too much on your plate?”

Thomas smirks at the remark, “You were resting,” he explains. “I wasn’t sure…the treatment—You were ill.”

Your jaw tenses, “I’m fine now. And I can take care of myself.”

The demon offers you a kind smile, looks around him to check that no one is within hearing distance, “I need to speak with you. Privately,” he whispers.

You heave a sigh, jerking your head to the side, gesturing for him to walk with you.

“You could’ve started with that, you know.”

*****

You flop on the bed as Thomas closes the door, a hand immediately diving into the white paper bag to scoop up the burger.

“So,” he starts, easing himself down on the mattress beside you, “have you thought of a new plan?”

You blink at him as you chew, shake your head while you swallow. “I can’t,” you say, wiping at your mouth with a crumpled napkin. “It’s just too dangerous…he threatened me. And I won’t be responsible for you. So…I can’t.”

Thomas lets out a deflated sigh, chews at the inside of his mouth as he processes your words. You’re sipping at your soda when something hits you; an epiphany of sorts. Maybe the plan isn’t to escape, maybe it’s to stop Dean. If you can just dig deep enough, maybe you can reach the last traces of his humanity before it’s eviscerated completely.

“I have to stay,” you announce. Thomas tilts his head, chocolate eyes squinting questioningly at you. “The mark,” you explain, “it’s given him some sense of…new purpose—and okay, I can accept that…but where does it end?” The demon’s eyebrows lift, no doubt the first time he’s ever considered the issue. “I mean,” you continue, “once Dean has Hell, what’s to stop him from taking— _destroying_ , everything else; Earth,  _Heaven?_ ”

“I don’t think he has quite  _that_  much power,” Thomas chuckles.

“You don’t know that,” you push. “Even as a human, the mark was turning Dean into something…something terrible. We don’t know what it’ll do to him as a demon—as a  _knight._ ”

“So what’s the plan?” Thomas asks softly.

“The plan?” you echo,“The plan is to stay on his good side, do whatever he asks when he asks. There has to be some humanity left in him, even if it’s a single, shriveled up thread. And I’ll find it,” you smile, resolve sprouting deep in your chest.

“I know I can.”


	8. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean returns.

The sound of a door opening is what wakes you, the metallic  _ch-chck_  of the latch disengaging harsh against the dark quiet.

You blink rapidly as your eyes adjust to the dim light of the electric lanterns, clumsily pushing yourself up to a sitting position, the navy comforter bunched over your criss-crossed legs.

“Sleep well?”

Your eyes flick toward the voice at the door. Dean’s slanted against the wall, arms lazily folded over his chest.

“Wasn’t  _done_  sleeping,” you sass, voice hoarse from slumber. “What time is it?” you yawn, stretching your arms long over your head.

“4:30.”

“In the  _morning?_ ” you gape.

“Yeah,” Dean chuckles. “Time ta get up, sleeping beauty.”

You groan deep, combing all ten fingers through your messy hair, blunt nails scraping over your scalp. “But the sun isn’t even up…” You’re well aware that you’re whining, but  _dammit_ —decent sleep has been hard to come by the last few days.

“Up, sweetheart,” Dean orders, vexed scowl morphing into a smirk.

“I brought breakfast.”

*****

Dean’s uncharacteristically silent as you eat, hard eyes trained on some kind of blueprint laid out on the desk in front of him. It’s still dark out, but you can see the sky morphing from black to hazy blue outside the old glass windows.

“So how was the uh, mission?” you ask, ducking into your burrito.

He sighs, directs his gaze at you, “As expected, Crowley’s upped his security. The place is surrounded.”

You swallow a mouthful of egg and sausage. “So? Aren’t you immortal now?”

“Yeah…” he says, dragging the word out slow, “but my soldiers aren’t.”

You have to press your lips together to hold in the snort.  _His soldiers. Aren’t we important?_

You mask your inner monologue with a lift of your eybrows, “Oh, right. So what’s the next step?”

He leans back in his chair, scrubs both hands up his face, over his head to clasp at the back of his neck. “I need more manpower.”

“More demons,” you clarify.

He nods, chewing at the corner of his mouth.

“How are you gonna do that? Steal Crowley’s?”

Dean smirks, brings his hands out, palms up, in a wide span, “Where’d ya think I got these guys?”

You suck down a cool sip of orange juice, “So—what? You’re gonna go out on a campaign trail? Convince ‘em to vote for you?”

His smirk widens into a full, cocky grin, “Ya got the convincing part right.”

“So…torture then. That’s the strategy,” you surmise.

His shoulders lift in a casual shrug, “It works.”

You nod, choosing not to press the matter, pushing your chair back as you stand to clear the desk of paper wrappers.

“Sit.”

The command is stern, and you find yourself lowering back into the seat before the protest can build in your chest.

“What—what is it?” Your voice is thick with unease, your eyes following Dean’s steady hand as he pulls out the wide desk drawer.

You know what it is before his hand leaves the compartment.

“Dean, please—I…I can’t.”

You watch as the dark red liquid sloshes within the clear glass vial between Dean’s fingers as he snaps the cap off. You’re trying your best to please him, but you just can’t see yourself going through this again.

He gets an elbow on the desk, rolling the blood-filled container between his thumb and index finger.

You take a breath, “I hate the way it makes me feel, please—”

“It gets better, honey. I promise.” His words do nothing to quell your rising anxiety—and besides, how the hell would he know? This isn’t how he turned, he didn’t have to take demon blood  _treatments._  No, he merely  _woke up_  this way. But you keep your mouth shut, silently pleading with soft eyes.

He dips his chin toward his chest, staring hard from underneath shadowed brows, “You know if you don’t take it willingly, I’m gonna  _make_  you take it. Right?”

You lick nervously at your chapped lips, “Dean,  _please_. It gave me a horrible headache, the  _sounds_ —”

“I got somethin’ for that,” he assures you. He lifts his chin, green eyes softening,“It’ll get easier, sweetheart.”

You feel your heart seize at the tender tone of his voice, and for a minute you’re almost convinced that you’re talking to  _your_ Dean; human Dean. Your teeth worry at your lip; if you can just hang on to your purpose, you can grit through the high. All you have to do is ride the wave.

With trembling fingers, you reach forward, fingertips brushing warm against his as you take the small cylinder, bringing the cool glass to your lips. You close your eyes, downing the liquid like a shot of whiskey with a quick, backward toss of your head.

Cold iron floods your tongue once again to flow smoothly down your throat. You swallow thickly, sucking both lips between set teeth to fight down the urge to gag.

“That’s my girl,” Dean rumbles, the gravel of his voice seeping straight into your bones. You keep your eyes screwed shut, afraid of the jolting change in vision you know is coming. A whirring sound in your ears commences the barrage of previously undetected noises. You can hear your breaths; shallow, rapid bursts of air that contrast heavily to Dean’s slow and steady exhalations. You can hear the low hum of the computer, the soft murmuring of voices from deep within the building.

Carefully, you peel your eyes open, the blurry details of the room quickly flashing into vivid focus. You blink rapidly, allowing the hyper sensations to settle inside.

“I…I think I need to go lie down,” you whisper.

“No,” Dean says, scooting his chair back to stand. “No, you’re gonna use it.”

“Huh? Use what?” You squint up at him, keeping your sensitive eyes locked on his towering bulk as he rounds the desk.

“The blood. The high,” he clarifies. “We’re gonna put it to good use.”

He offers you a big hand, and you hesitate.

_The purpose. Hang on to the purpose._

It feels like slow motion, like you’re moving through water, but you manage to slide your palm against his, curling your fingers in a firm grip as he helps you to your feet.

*****

The early morning breeze is refreshingly cool against your buzzing skin as you step out into the empty lot at the back of the warehouse. The sun is just peeking its golden head over the treetops lining the horizon, casting an orange-yellow glow underneath the deep indigo blanketing the sky.

You breathe deep, this is the first time you’ve been outside since you were brought here. How long’s it been? Three days? It’s hard to estimate when you’ve no way of telling time.

Dean bends his neck back, blinking long lashes toward the heavens. “I come out here a lot,” he says, a tint of softness to his gruff voice, “y’know, to think.”

“What do you think about?”

He smiles then, and it’s a true smile; not dark or predatory, it’s light and boyishly pure. The kind that reaches his eyes, filling in his crow’s feet. You feel the corners of your own mouth quirking up to replicate his.

“Just…things.” Dean falls silent once again and you decide not to press the matter.

“So, um, what are we doing out here exactly?”

He shoves his hands into his front pockets, turns his head toward the slowly rising curve of the sun. “Right now? Watching the sunrise.” He slips his right hand from his jeans, gets it around your waist to pull you close. You let him, sliding your own arm across his back as you lean into the warmth of his side.

“Last few we’ll see,” he mutters somberly.  A chill washes over you then that has nothing at all to do with the cool morning breeze.

There are no sunrises or sunsets in Hell; there’s only heat, suffering, darkness.

And he’s taking you along for the ride.

 

 

 


	9. Chapter 8

“Seriously?” You ask, raising at eyebrow at Dean. “Target practice?”

A line of beer bottles sit at the top of a raised wooden blank, dark brown glass glinting in the morning sunlight.

“Yep,” Dean confirms, “Target practice. Told ya we’re gonna use the high.”

“Okay…but how is that—I mean—I know how to shoot a gun, Dean. I don’t need to drink blood…”

“You’re a shit shot, kid.”

Your eyebrows drop in anger as you glare up at him, “I am not!” you protest, huffing when Dean smirks down at you.

You’d never admit it out loud, but he’s right—for whatever mysterious reason, you’ve never gotten the hang of firearms, not in the seven years you’ve been hunting. Now, blades? You’re a  _master_ of all kinds; long blades, short blades, daggers—hell, you’re deadly with a fucking  _screwdriver_ , but guns? They’ve just never been your forte.

“Okay,” Dean says, shoving a sleek, black glock into your right hand, “give it a shot.” You hear him sniggering at his lame pun as he backs away.

You roll your eyes as you prepare your stance; shifting your feet apart, raising the gun to level your eyes with the sights.

“Breathe,” Dean murmurs behind you, and you do—your chest expanding with a slow inhale, index finger curling around the trigger, squeezing as you breathe out—

You gasp out your surprise as your target explodes, amber shards of glass glittering under the sun.

“Holy shit!” you screech, twirling around to face Dean, “I got it on the first try!”

He dips his chin toward the still-standing bottles, “You got four more, honey. See if ya can get ‘em all.”

You nod, turning back to resume your previous position, locking the aim of your weapon on the next target.

The next few seconds are filled with the sounds of deafening gunfire and bursting glass as you hit every bottle in a stunning show of accuracy, your hyper-focused vision guiding the way.

You lower your arms once all the debris has settled, gaping in dazed silence as the gun hangs loosely at your side; ears ringing , adrenaline thrumming strong.

There’s a slight crunching of boots on grass and gravel as Dean steps up to your side. “Demon blood does have it perks, don’t it?”

You swallow, twisting at the neck to squint up at him. “Why? Why are you doing this?”

Dean opens his mouth to respond, quickly closing it when a shout from behind cuts through the dry breeze—

“My King! There’s been a situation!”

You both turn in sync at the voice to find a panic-stricken demon stiffly standing at the back entrance of the warehouse.

“Come on,” Dean grumbles as he begins long, quick strides toward the door.

You have to half-jog to keep up with the man, weaving in and out of bustling, frantic figures as you follow him into the chaos of the command center.

Demons all but dive out of Dean’s way as he drives through the crowd, clearing the way to reveal a bloodied man laying face-down, lifeless on the floor. Another is slumped on his knees, hands bound in metal handcuffs, head bent forward. Long, black, sweat-and-blood-matted hair hangs loose, curtaining his face as one of Dean’s men clutches him by the back collar of his suit jacket.

“Who are they?” Dean demands, voice sharp.

“Crowley’s lackeys,” the demon says, roughly jerking at the prisoner. “Found them scoping us from the woods across the road.”

“He’s preparing another ambush,” Dean concludes, nodding his understanding. “There any more?” he asks, folding his arms.

“No,” the demon says, “not that we could find, we have a unit still searching out there.”

“Why am I just now finding out about this?” Dean bites, dark eyes steeling into the man.

His gaze flickers between you and Dean, “You were…you were busy, sir—”

“And?” Dean seethes.

“I thought it best you weren’t disturbed—”

“ _You_  thought it best?” Dean repeats, smirking coldly. “I gave you  _strict_  orders,” he sneers, “your job, as guard  _captain_ , is to inform me  _first._ I make the decisions around here. We clear, or do I need to carve that into you?”

This ‘guard captain’, as you’ve just so recently learned, sets his jaw and raises wavering blue eyes to his superior, “Yes, sir,” he replies.

Dean lets out an audible huff, “Take him to the chair,” he orders.

_Chair? What chair?_

Before you can question what the hell is going on, the guard heaves the prisoner to his feet, gripping him tightly around one arm while another demon approaches from somewhere within the crowded room, hand clamping onto the captive’s other arm, hauling the man forward through the sea of bodies.

You’re right on Dean’s tail as you follow him through the mass, heart hammering with stomach-turning dread.

*****

The room you’re currently standing in is slightly smaller than the command center, but still the same drab, lifeless interior. Ancient fluorescent lights hang from the high ceiling, flickering occasionally with the threat of dying completely. Sunlight filters in through the cracked windows on the far wall, bathing half the room in a brightness that doesn’t at all match the foreboding atmosphere.

The chair, as it turns out, is in fact—a chair. It’s simple; old, wooden, and marred with scratches. The captive demon sits tightly secured, rusted chains binding his wrists and ankles to the common piece of furniture.

The guard captain and his assistant stand on either side of the chair, hands leisurely clasped at their fronts, eyes focused ahead.

You curl your fingers into Dean’s sleave as you stare wide-eyed at the scene, bunching up the wine colored fabric hugging his big arm,

“What’s going on? What is this?”

“This,” Dean smirks, raising his voice so the captured demon can hear him, “is what we do with traitors.”

Your hand falls away to take its place at your side as the previously silent demon chuckles darkly, raising his head to look Dean dead in the eye, “Traitor?” he sneers, baring blood-stained teeth, “ _Crowley_  is Hell’s true king,” he states proudly before twisting in his features in disgust, “not some hunter-turned-Abaddon-wannabe.”

Dean smiles tightly, eyes blazing, “Crowley is a glorified crossroads salesman with an ego the size of the planet. He’s no king.”

“Oh,” the demon croons, “so you—a hunter—are better qualified for the position of King of Hell?”

“See, that’s your problem,” Dean says, dipping his chin and wagging a long finger at the restrained prisoner, “you see Hell as a business. As a corporation.”

The demon sniggers, “Enlighten me then, Mr. Winchester…What is Hell to you?”

Dean smiles icy, takes five slow, thumping steps towards the captive, stopping when the tips of his boots nearly touch the demon’s dirt-streaked dress shoes. He leans forward, bracing his hands on his thighs.

“Hell? Is hell. No number crunching, no powerpoint presentations, no boardroom meetings…Hell is where the damned pay the price for…well—for being damned.”

You can’t see his face, but god, you can just imagine the sinister grin plastered wide, can see the sickening black abyss of his eyes. You shudder.

“So kill me then,” the demon smirks.

“Look,” Dean says after a beat, “you’ve had a rough day, and honestly? I don’t wanna be here anymore’n you do. I got a thousand and one other things I could be takin’ care of right now…yet, here we are. So why don’t you make this easier on all of us, hmm?”

The demon tilts his head in question. “Easier?”

“Swear allegience to me,” Dean says slowly, “and all will be forgotten. ’Sides, I could always use more soldiers,” he adds.

Chains rattle as the demon erupts into a full-bodied laugh, deep cackle bouncing off the deteriorating walls. His mouth stoops to a deep frown, eyes hardening as his chuckling ebbs into thick silence,

“Long. Live. King. Crowley.” he hisses.

Dean bobs his head in a nod, raises to his full height, then dips his head toward the guard captain who immediately scurries off on some unknown errand.

“Sweetheart,” he calls then, back still turned to you, “come on over here.”

You don’t move for a frozen second, feet soldered to concrete.

“Sweetheart…” Dean’s twisted at the waist toward you now, hard eyes searing as he waits for you to heed his command.

Your legs feel like lead as they carry you toward the demons, pulse throbbing in your ears. The bound man’s eyes dart wildly between you and Dean, searching for the connection.

“I’d introduce you,” Dean says, “but…it really doesn’t matter here, does it? I mean, you’re not gonna be here much longer.” A blanket of ice drops over you at the sickening twist of his smile. You swallow thickly as you drop your gaze to the prisoner, where you see the first glimpse of true terror flash across his unblinking eyes.

A rattling sound shatters your focus, and you raise your eyes to see the guard captain pushing a metal tray toward the four of you. It looks like a medical tray, a thin sheet draped over the top, and dear  _god—_

 _“Torture?”_ you blurt, voice high, “You’re going to torture him? Dean—”

“Demons and torture, honey,” Dean says, “it ain’t exactly a new concept.”

“Yeah, but this is—there’s no reason for this, please, just—just kill him! Get it over with!”

“Sweetheart, we talked about this this morning. Remember? All he needs is a little convincing.”

“He made his choice, Dean! Just kill him!” You’re staring at him wide-eyed, fingers scrunched back in his shirt sleeve.

“Sir,” the demon guard delicately interrupts, stepping around the silver tray, “if I may—perhaps she shouldn’t witness this.”

“No.” Deans says flatly, unwavering green eyes trained on yours, “She’s gonna stay, and she’s gonna  _watch_.”


	10. Chapter 9

You’re not sure if it’s the effects of the blood, or the state of your panic, but you can’t ignore the stomach-turning nausea burning in your gut.

“Please,” you whimper. “Please don’t do this.” Your voice is so high it’s embarassing, but you can’t stop the pleas from tumbling past your lips.

Dean takes the short step towards you, closing the distance, taking your chin between his thumb and hooked index finger. “I want you to see this,” he says, voice gruff. “But I  _don’t_  want to hear your voice until this is over…” He shakes his head slowly; patronizingly as he speaks. “Got it?” You clench your jaw, blinking slow as you nod into his grip.

“Good girl,” he smiles, leaning in to press a chaste kiss to your lips.

You breathe out a slow, steadying breath as he turns away, boots rasping over concrete as he walks to the tray.  A tingling chill trickles through you when he flips the cloth over—

To reveal a  _ghastly_  assortment of torture instruments; blades of varying sizes, syringes, scalpels, surgical scissors, rope, duct tape, a tall cylinder of salt, a flask of what’s sure to contain holy water…and the First Blade.

Dean picks up a small knife, twirling it between skilled fingers as he turns to the bound demon. “One last chance,” he offers. “Join me…and you’re free.” 

The man’s eyes flood black, “Do…your… _worst_.” 

Dean bends at the waist, braces a hand against the arm of the chair as he waves the short blade dangerously close to the prisoner’s face. “My pleasure,” he grins, teeth gleaming, even from this distance.

And with that, the demon  _growls_  as the knight plunges the silver length knife into his chest. It’s just an enchantedless weapon, it won’t kill the creature, but it’s enough to warp his features in agonizing pain. A satisfied smirk curls at Dean’s lips as he turns around, fingers wiggling over the tray as he searches for the next device.

You swallow thickly when he picks up an empty syringe, sliding it between his index and middle fingers as he screws the lid off the silver flask. Your eyes nervously flick to the prisoner, whose chest is heaving rapidly with the knife still enbedded to the handle.

You hold your breath when Dean approaches the demon, thumb ready at the base of the plunger. He fists the man’s hair, yanking his head to the side. “Now,” he says, “this might burn a little.” 

And then he slams the needle  _hard_  into the traitor’s neck, slowly thumbing down the plunger. Steam billows out from between the demon’s bared teeth as he screams, embossed neck tendons straining underneath sweat-slick skin.

Dean steps back, folding his arms as he takes in the anguished sight of his captive. “Change your mind yet?” he smirks.

“Fuck—gah! Fuck you!” the demon hisses.

The knight’s head cocks to the side, strongs shoulders lifting in a casual shrug, arms falling to his sides as he turns to retrieve the next instrument.

Your tongue itches to plead with the demon to take the easy out. His loyalty to the standing king can’t be so strong that it’s worth all  _this_. But you keep your mouth shut—Dean’s in a zone, a zone you  _don’t_  want to be pulled into.

You watch as Dean tears off a silver strip of duct tape with a  _riiiip_ , the adhesive clinging to the tip of the middle finger of his left hand, as his right lifts the container of salt—

Oh, god.

He turns, nodding at the guards standing either side of the twitching creature. They immediately spring into action—

The captain gets both hands underneath the demon’s jaw and  _jerks_ , sharply forcing his head back, while the other presses his fingers into the man’s cheeks, squeezing until his lips pucker and part.

You watch helplessly as dean pops the metal nozzle…and then pours a heaping amount salt into the demon’s gaping mouth before tightly securing the tape over his lips. 

Your stomach turns as the creature sputters, jerks, and convulses, the tape coming loose within seconds as red-tinted foam dribbles from underneath the adhesive. Dean quickly clamps a palm over the binding while the demon takes in short, rapid breaths through his nose. 

Dean finally pulls away, peeling the ruined tape with him to reveal glistening crimson staining the prisoner’s lips and cheeks. With a flick of his hand, his lackeys retreat, assuming their previous positions to the sides of the bound captive.

The creature breathes out a dark, panting chuckle, turns his head to flash red-streaked teeth at you. “Enjoying the show?” he asks before righting his head back towards Dean. “Pretty bitch,” he rumbles low. “Good thing you got me chained up,” he says, lips popping the ‘P’. “I’d jump on that in a heartbeat.” 

Dean gives the demon a tight, closed-lipped smile as he balls up the strip of tape before carelessly tossing it to the floor.

“Well, you got a problem now,” Dean drawls. “You’ve just insulted the future queen of Hell.” His jaw ticks, smile fading into a deep scowl. “I won’t tolerate that,” he says coldly. “So I’m taking back my offer.” He breathes out a deep chuckle and then, “You’re going to  _die_  here…but not until I’m finished.” He turns on his booted heel, quickly scooping up a  _much_  longer blade than the one currently lodged in the demon’s chest. Dean dribbles holy water over the length of the blade before shaking  _at least_  a tablespoonful of salt over the steel, coating the weapon in demon-poison.

You can only watch as Dean silently glides to the man, hunt-hardened fingers fisted around the handle. He raises his arm slightly—swiftly  _plunging_  the weapon deep into his thigh, lightening-fast, before taking two steps back to survey the damage. The demon throws his head back in an  _inhuman_  scream, body trembling as the poison burns through him. 

Your mouth is cotton as you watch Dean pick up the next weapon…the First Blade; that  _terrifyingly_  long curve of teeth and bone. He turns the thing in his fist, the corners of his mouth tilting up in…adoration? Appreciation maybe? Whatever it is, a part of you is glad that the blade has made its appearance. That means all of this is over. 

He  _is_ going to kill him now…isn’t he?

The prisoner’s eyelids are heavy with the burden of staying conscious as Dean saunters towards him. The former hunter uses the weapon to point at the demon; sharp, ancient bone jabbing through the air. “You know what  _this_ is, don’t’cha?” Dean asks, excitement largely evident in his rumbling voice.

“The First Blade…” the demon wheezes. 

“That’s right,” Dean drawls. “My best friend, actually.” 

The demon’s breathing shallows even more as he takes the weapon in. He knows this is it. 

Dean braces a hand against the prisoner’s shoulder, bringing the blade up to his sticky cheek, gently pressing the tip against him until it’s denting into the flesh…

And then flicks his wrist to the right—an orange spark flashes behind the open wound just before the blood gathers to slowly ooze down, curving under his jaw, and finally dripping down to stain his shirt. The demon’s face contorts at the pain, blood-and-dirt streaked cheeks twitching rhythmically.

Dean brings the weapon to the opposite cheek, giving it the same treatment before dragging a bloodied, flickering line down the length of the demon’s throat.

The knight continues to guide the blade down to settle against the demon’s chest, just centimeters from the small knife still lodged into layers of flesh and muscle. 

“Any last words?” Dean asks, voice deep. 

Several excruciating seconds pass as the two demons glower into each other. You don’t miss the quick flicker of the prisoner’s gaze as he eyes the blade before he brings it back to Dean. 

More silence, until finally—

“Long…live…the king!” the demon barks, booming voice bouncing off the warehouse walls. 

“Oh,” Dean says slowly, voice chillingly soft. “I plan on living for a long,  _long_  time.” 

And then he drives the ancient blade in deep, releasing the hilt and backing away as bright orange flashes and bursts underneath pale flesh. 

You can taste the bile when Dean finally pulls the blade free with a sickening, wet squelch. He nonchalantly wipes the blade clean on the lifeless demon’s slacks before tossing the weapon back onto the tray with a loud clatter.

“Burn the body,” Dean orders as he makes his way toward you.

You press the back of your hand against your mouth, closing your eyes to fight down the nausea—

“Really?” Your eyes pop open at the sudden closeness of Dean’s unimpressed voice. “You’re a goddamn  _hunter_  and you can’t handle a little torture?” 

You scoff, blood boiling hot as you take a step back to glare up at him. “Yeah, I  _hunt_ ,” you seethe. “I decapitate vampires, shoot witches—I  _kill_ , Dean,” you say, waving your arms about in your ranting. “And I do it  _quickly_ , I don’t draw out their pain for my own sick satisfaction!” 

Dean rolls his eyes briefly before stepping into you to rake rough fingers through your hair. “Just relax, honey. You’ll get used to it—”

You growl then, actually  _growl_  as you take another step back, slapping his hands away. “You’re  _always_ saying that! But I’m not, Dean! I’m not getting used to anything!” You take a calming breath, pinch the bridge of your nose before smoothing your hand through your hair. “I can’t handle this,” you say, head shaking. “I just…I just want to go home,” you murmur.

“Dammit,” Dean sighs, dragging both hands tiredly down his face. He crosses his arms over his chest, settles jade eyes on you. “How’re you feelin’?” 

The question throws you. “What? I’m fine, I just want to—”

“No,” Dean says, “I mean physically…you still on that high?” 

You actually have to stop to think. You’re antsy…jittery; almost like you’ve had too much caffeine, but you definitely don’t feel that sense-stimulating high from before _._

“I…I don’t think so,” you say. “I think you just scared it out of me.” 

Dean steps in again, runs warm fingers across your cheeck as he swipes a thumb across the curve of your lower lip in a burning, tingling trail. “How ‘bout I make it up to you, hmm?” 

Oh, you don’t like where this is going.

“Forget the blood…how ‘bout  _I_ make ya feel good?”

“No,” you whisper. “I don’t…I mean I just—”

“Sir!” 

You whip around at the new voice. Two demons—a male and female—stand at the now-opened door, fear evident in their matching expressions.

“What?” Dean sighs, audibly agitated at being interrupted for the second time today.

The two demons exchange glances. “We have a problem,” the male says, stealing another look from the woman next to him. “It’s your brother.” 

“My  _brother?_ ” Dean echoes, slowly stepping around you to approach the door.

“Yes,” the female demon confirms, voice faint and wavering. 

“Sam Winchester is here.” 


	11. Chapter 10

You can see the anger flicker in Dean’s eyes, can see the muscles working in his jaw as he processes the news.

“W-what should we do?” the man asks, eyes wide.

Dean side-eyes you, face twitching with...something. “You two are gonna get her outta here. I’ll take care of this.”

“What? Dean—no—please! I need to talk to him!” You take slow, careful steps back as the demons approach. “Stay away from me,” you growl, your voice surprisingly low. “Dean! Pl—” You let yourself get too distracted, eyes floating to Dean slipping through the door, and in a breath, the two demons are on you, one on each side. You jerk instinctively, pulling against the iron grip on each arm, but they’ve got you too tight— You swing a leg and kick the man in the back of the knee—he buckles, releasing your arm to brace himself as he falls. And then you’re swinging that arm to your left as you pivot yourself on the balls of your feet, get a fistful of the woman’s red, wiry hair—You _heave_ your head _back_ and then _slam_ the tip of your forehead into hers. You feel her grip weaken as her eyes cross, and then she topples to the floor.

Your heart’s pounding, _soaring_ at your victory, but then a pair of strong arms coil around your chest from behind. You throw your head back, but you’re only met with a solid chest. Your arms are violently, _painfully_ wrenched behind you and then a wet cloth is shoved up over your mouth and nose—

“Easy,” a low voice murmurs as you twitch in his arms, breathing in the sweet scent. Recognition flickers somewhere in your mind as everything starts to go still.

Fuck.

The guard captain.

And then there’s darkness.

*****

God, your head...It feels like it’s being crushed by three tons of pressure. You bring your hands up, push the heels of your palms into your temples...and then _carefully_ open your eyes.

Your back in your bedroom. _Your bedroom?_ God, what’s happening?

The pain increases tenfold when you raise up, even more at the sudden pounding on the door. It opens before you can find your voice. Thomas stands at the entrance, hand still clasped on the knob.

“My Lady,” he greets with a courteous tip of the head. “You’ve a visitor.”

You squint at him, confused, but then he’s backing away into the dusty dark of the hall—

And Sam emerges.

Your vision blurs with salty wet as a wave of sudden emotion washes over you. You throw yourself off the bed, ignoring the incessant pounding at your skull and the stiffness of your just-awoken limbs as you careen into your best friend’s chest.

He wraps his strong arms around you as you weep into his blue flannel, inhaling the familiar scent of him.

“Thank god,” you whisper. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

You feel him tense, and you dip your head back to gauge his face. His features are drawn in what you can only read as pain; lips tight, forehead puckered between scrunched brows

“Sam?”

He closes his eyes and sadly shakes his head. You see his throat bob with a thick swallow; you know him well enough to recognize when he’s shoving down a sob.

“Sam, what is it? What’s wrong?”

He opens his eyes, lower lash lines red and glistening with the promise of tears.

“I can’t—“ His voice cracks. “I can’t take you with me—I just...I just needed to see what I’m up against...needed to see that you’re okay.”

“What?” you gasp. Sam’s arms slip from you as you step back, gaping up at him as you wipe at your wet cheeks.

“Sam, what are you talking about? You’re here! Let’s go!”

The hunter sighs, rakes his long fingers through his hair, then scrubs a palm over his mouth. “You really think Dean’s just gonna let us walk out of here? Come on, kiddo.”

“But—”

“I got myself caught,” he explains. “I had to get inside, see what...see how bad it is.” His shoulders sag with the sorrow of his confession, and you suddenly notice how thin he’s gotten; cheekbones much more prominent under his pale skin, clothes noticeably baggier.

“You can’t do this alone.” It’s not so much a statement, but a realization. How could you have even _thought_ he could rescue you alone? One human against an _army_ of demons. A building army at least.

“You shouldn’t have done this,” you say, with a somber shake of your head.

“I told you—”

“You could have gotten yourself killed!”

Sam rocks back a little at your outburst, shoved his hands deep into his loose pockets.

“And?”

“What?”

He huffs a solemn chuckle, tips his head back to gaze at the water-stained ceiling. “I lost my brother...I lost you...my family’s gone.” He rights his head, tired autumn eyes locking on yours. “Tell me what I have to live for.”

Now it’s your turn to swallow down a sob.

“Sam—”

“I’m getting my family back,” he chokes, voice wavering as he struggles to contain the emotion threatening to breach the brim of his eyes. “Even if it kills me.”

He rushes you then, crushes you to his chest, long arms coiling tight around you as he dips his head to your neck. You can feel his warm tears wetting your hair as he finally breaks down, body shaking with muffled sobs. He lets himself cry for a long minute and then sucks in several deep, calming breaths. “I’m gonna save you, kiddo,” he whispers. “I’m gonna save you both.”

Your hands find purchase on his shoulders as you pull back, eyes stinging with the threat of fresh tears of your own. “Be careful,” you implore him, smiling through the blur. “And if it gets bad—”

“I’m coming back,” he promises, raspy voice strengthening with every word. “I’m gonna gather up some man-power...” He blows out a heavy breath. “And I’m gonna bring my family home.”


	12. Chapter 11

Sam’s words echo in your head as you sit on the floor, back flush against the wooden footboard of the bed:  _‘...bring my family home.’_  While a much deeper, much grittier voice chants  _‘You are home…’_ over and over, like a mantra. **  
**

You press your palms to your ears, try to drown out the battling echoes, when the sound of your door opening suddenly snuffs out the phantom voices.

You jump to your feet at the sight of Dean’s towering frame. His eyes are green, but they’re dark, jaw firmly set as he just  _looks_  at you.

You swallow; mind racing and heart pounding as you wait for him to speak. He takes a slow step forward, clicks the door shut behind him, cocks his head.

“How’d ya do it?”

“Do what?” Your voice is weak.

“Don’t play dumb, honey. I ain’t in the mood. How’d you get a hold of him?”

“I didn’t! Dean, please...I swear—”

“So Sam just...shows up all of a sudden? Outta the blue?”

“Dean—” You take deep breath to calm your buzzing nerves. “I know what it looks like, but it wasn’t me—I mean, you keep me locked up in here ninety-five percent of the time...how  _could_  I have—”

Dean takes another step. “I notice Thomas has been pretty sweet on you. Maybe he’s helping you. Hmm?” Another step. “Would you like to watch me gut him? Right in front o’ ya?”

“Stop! Dean––Thomas hasn’t done anything––” You blink slow and heave out a heavy sigh. “You know Sam, you know your brother. He’ll do whatever it takes to save the people he loves. He _loves_  us, Dean. And he’ll kill himself trying to bring us home.”

Dean grunts, tongues at his cheek, scruffed skin bulging over it. He crosses his arms over his chest and licks at his lips. “I coulda killed him, ya know. Hell, I  _shoulda_.”

You swallow, work your jaw. “He’s your  _brother_ ,” you whisper, eyes cast to the dirty floor.

“Yeah,” Dean rumbles. “He’s my brother who’s getting in my goddamn way.” Your blood freezes at the statement, and your heart cracks a little.

“What happened today?” you murmur. “What’d you do––say––to him?”

Dean shrugs, eyes flitting to the ceiling. “We came to an agreement,” he says, voice flat.

“What kind of agreement?”

“He says he’ll back off as long as you’re not ‘harmed’.” He rolls his eyes, crooks his index and middle fingers into quotation marks as he mimics his younger brother.

“Oh,” you breathe. “How will he know I’m okay?”

“Well,” Dean drawls, taking another intimidatingly slow step toward you. “If you’re a  _good_  girl, I’ll let ya talk to him once a week. How’s that?”

You let out a scoff. “Do I have a choice?”

“Smart girl,” he grins. “Oh, and uh, those calls will be monitored. By me.”

You nod. “Understood,” you hiss, unable to keep the bitterness from coating your voice.

You have no way to see it coming, it’s  _lightning-fast_ –– but you suddenly can’t breathe––Dean’s hand is closed around your throat, thick palm pushing right into your larynx. Sharp pain blooms across your shoulder blades as the demon shoves you into the wall, fingertips pulsing at the sides of your neck.

“I need you take this just a  _little_  more seriously,” Dean growls, breath hot on your lips. “Do you know how many demon-sluts I got working for me that would  _kill_  to be in your shoes? Hmm?” You try to speak, but all you can manage is a garbled, choked noise with his heavy hand crushing into you. “I’m offering you a goddamn  _gift_ , so I’d appreciate a little more respect. Is that understood?”

And with that, his hand leaves you. You wheeze in two heaping chestfuls of oxygen before you crumble to the hard floor, pain webbing over your knees at the impact. You rub a soothing hand over your aching throat while you blink away stinging tears.

Your door slams, and then you cry.

*****

 _He’s coming back,_  you tell yourself under the steaming spray.  _Sam’s coming back, he’ll fix this. He’ll fix all of it._  You scrub your hands over your face, press your fingers into your tired eyes. You don’t know what time it is, but it feels like it must be midnight or later. God, it’s been a long day.

You try not to look at your reflection as you comb your fingers through your wet hair. You’re terrified that one day you’ll see black eyes staring back.

You quickly throw on fresh clothes; Thomas had brought you at least a month’s worth after Sam left. You almost chuckle at the thought of a male demon shopping for women’s clothes. Or maybe Dean had. The attire matches your style almost to a T.

You open the door to the hallway, feel the the cooler air greet your shower-heated skin. You’re walking back to your room when a hand clamps onto your upper arm and  _jerks_  you around the corner––

“What the f––Thomas?”

The demon looks nervous, eyes darting left and right as he lowers his lips to your ear. “I’m getting you out of here,” he whispers. “Don’t ask questions, Sam’s waiting with a car.”

“What? Thomas, are you serious?” you gape, eyes wide. “How? He said––”

“I said no questions––” The demons sighs, brown eyes scanning the hallway once again before coming back to yours. “Look, we spoke, me and Sam. I bring you to him, and I get my freedom.”

“Your freedom? Thomas, you’re a demon…

“I can blend, live amongst your kind.” He smiles, shoulders bobbing with a light shrug. “I’m a bit tired of Hell anyway.”

“I don’t know. If Dean finds out…”

“He’s in a meeting now. Briefing a unit. He’ll be tied up a while, but we have to move.  _Now_.”

*****

Sam’s two miles down the road. Thomas had failed to mention that part, but you won’t complain, not if it means your ticket back home.

“This is so dangerous,” you whisper into the warm night air. “There could be demons patrolling—”

“Why do you think we’re leaving at the dead of night?” The demon counters. “Besides, If we’re discovered, I’ll simply tell them I’m transporting you under His Grace’s orders. We’ll be long gone by the time word gets back to him.”

You nod your agreement and then silence returns to you both, only the crisp crunch of gravel filling the balmy air.

After several moments you release a tired sigh. “Can’t you teleport us or something? I’m so freakin’ tired...”

The demon shakes his head. “I’m afraid not, that takes quite a bit of energy...energy I’ll need in case there’s a fight.”

“Oh. Right…” You bite your lip and tilt your head up at the man beside you. “But there’s probably not gonna be a fight...right?”

Thomas chuckles, soft and warm. “No, probably not.”

*****

By the time you reach your destination, dawn is just beginning to peak over the horizon, a thin sliver of deep purple peeping over tree-dusted hills.

A black car is sitting approximately five feet off the road; still, quiet. You squint, try to make out the license plate, but it’s still too dark.

The driver’s door opens then, its hinges squealing with the motion. Hope begins to swell in your chest, adrenaline picking up––

But the figure is all wrong, he’s much too short...and portly.

“Hello, Darling.”

Son. Of. A. Bitch.

“Crowley?!” you squeak, taking a surprised step backwards.

“Well done, Thomas,” the demon king praises. There’s just enough morning light for you to see his smug smile. “You’ve shown tremendous promise. I see high ranks in your future.”

You snap your head toward your demon ally––

And your blood freezes, heart shatters at the twisted smirk on his face.


	13. Chapter 12

You don’t think you’ll ever get used to the nausea that comes with teleportation; the the way it makes your stomach turn inside out, your eyes cross…the way it makes your brain all staticky.

You rock a little on your feet as you find your bearings, then blink until you feel your head start to clear.

You’re standing in the middle of a medieval-style bedroom; complete with stone floors and walls, flame lit cartwheel chandelier hanging above you...The bed’s a wooden canopy; intricate designs carved in to the dark chocolate wood. There’s a single nightstand of matching wood on the right side of the bed, the surface vacant except for a lone candle.

You’ve never had the luxury of visiting, but you know this is Hell.

Your hands are clenched into fists at your sides as you let the seething rage thrum through your veins. You slowly tilt your head up at your former friend.

“I trusted you,” you fume at the demon from behind heavily narrowed eyes. “And you betrayed me!”

“Demon,” Thomas reminds you with an uncaring shrug. You glower at him for another solid two seconds before turning your attention to the smarmy businessman-turned-king-of-Hell.

“So what’s your play?” you ask, bringing your arms up to fold under your breasts.

“Leverage, my dear. I now have something that belongs to that rabid squirrel. He’ll bust in here,  _blind_  with rage…” Crowley grins. “And then we’ve got him.”

“Dean can’t die,” you toss back. “He’s got the mark. And the bl—”

“No,” the demon king agrees with an affirmative shake of the head. “I can’t kill him, but I can lock him away. Like the monster that he is.”

“The cage,” you murmur, eyes dancing at the sudden realization.

“Bingo.”

“You’ve lost your mind.”

Crowley’s jaw ticks as he chews at his cheek. “Your boyfriend might be able to take on a gaggle of demons alone,” he says, “but not a whole bloody army.”

You shake your head and smile grimly, locking your eyes on Hell’s viceroy. “He’ll cut through every damn one of them like  _butter_...until he gets to you.”

The Scotsman’s eyes cloud with something, but he quickly recovers. “Well,” he clips. “We’ll just have to see what happens, won’t we?”

*****

You spend at least an hour pacing and cursing to yourself. How the hell did you get into this mess?

Fucking Winchesters.

You even go as far as slapping your hands at random spots against the cold stone walls, looking for some kind of secret escape. Like there would  _be_  any…

There’s a sudden, light rasp of knuckles against the door and then it’s squeaking open before you have a chance to respond…

Your teeth gnash on their own at the sight of the demon who betrayed you.

“Get the fuck out,” you warn, voice uncharacteristically low.

The demon slips inside anyway, fancy silver plate–– complete with dome cover–– balanced against his chubby hand. “You need to eat,” he says, nodding at the mystery meal.

“And you need to choke on your own smoke, so I guess we’re at a standstill.”

Thomas sighs, bends down to gently set the tray on the hard floor. “I want you to understand that this wasn’t personal,” he says rising back to his full height.

You cackle out a clipped  _ha!_ and stretch your neck toward him. “You deceived me, I’m a person; it’s personal.”

“Look, I’m loyal to Crowley—”

“Ya  _think?!”_

His face goes stony. “Dean can’t be king. He’s a loose cannon.”

“Interesting. I seem to recall you telling me that he couldn’t be stopped.”

“I lied.”

You work your jaw and look away. “You’re unbelievable.”

“He  _must_  be locked away,” Thomas says, voice soft. “I wasn’t lying when I said he was dangerous.”

You direct your gaze back at your former friend. “Then I’d start worrying if I were you. Now...Get. Out.

You glare at the meal tray as soon as the door latches shut. You’re so hungry...but you’re not about to risk being poisoned, so you leave it, instead turning around to shuffle toward the admittedly comfy-looking bed.

You barely recall laying down; there was a softness under your neck and back...and then there was nothing.

*****

“Rise and shine, love…” You grunt as you’re pulled to consciousness, and away from the comforting black of dreamless sleep. A cold hand on your arm is what does it—You lurch forward, hunter reflexes causing you to swing a fist at the direction of your disturbance. It’s easily caught, plump fingers wrapping around your forearm.

“My, my...You’re even feisty in your sleep.”

“Fuck off, Crowley.”

He releases you, takes a step back. “Come on, we need to talk.” 

You grit your teeth and jam the heels of your palms into your sleep-swollen eyes. “I don’t wanna talk to you,” you mumble. “I just wanna go home…”

“Alright, that’s enough,” the king grumbles. “No one likes a whiner.”

You let your hands slide down your cheeks and then drop them to your lap.

“Fine. What would you like to discuss,  _Your Majesty?_ ” You curl an arm around your middle, stretch the other in front of you, flipping your palm in a parody of a bow from your seat on the bed.

Crowley ignores your mockery, eases himself onto the foot of the mattress and thoughtfully runs a hand along the grooved column of the bedpost.

“We need to discuss the house rules,” he says, turning his head toward you.

“Awesome,” you say. “I love learning my place right after a kidnapping.”

“It’s for your own safety, darling.”

“Just spit it out, dude. I’m really looking forward to going back to sleeping my despair away.”

Crowley sighs, rights his head so that he’s staring at the far wall. He absently dips his thumb into a deep wooden engravement. “I’ll make it brief. You’ve free reign of the the living quarters...That’s your bed chamber, kitchen, and the great hall.” He lolls his head back to you. “You will under  _no_  circumstances venture into the bowels of this place. You wouldn’t like it anyway.”

“Got it. Is that all?”

The demon makes a face, like he’s surprised that you aren’t fighting him on this. “Not quite, he says. “Go wash up, dinner will be in an hour. I’ll send Thomas for you.”

“Oh,  _splendid_ ,” you mock, then run a hand through your wild mess of hair.

“See you soon,” the king purrs, and then he’s gone.

*****

You may be in Hell, but the bath is heavenly; there’s even a little cushion suctioned to the rear lip of the tub. You lift a leg, drape it over the rounded porcelain edge, and watch the steam billow up off your wet thigh.

This isn’t good. Dean’s no doubt furious; you can just see him destroying his office in a wild rage. Crowley might be right; Dean very well may stupidly barge into Hell blind. But his rage will only fuel the mark—and the mark kills.

You can only hope Dean doesn’t turn that rage on you...But you had willingly gone with Thomas on the false pretense that he was helping you to escape. Dean may put all the blame on you—and then…

Well, then you wouldn’t have to worry about it anymore, you think.

But Sam...Oh god, Sam. He’d been so broken, so  _hopeless_. If Dean is destined to be damned, you can’t just leave Sam to grieve alone. There’s got to be a way out. You just need to think like a Winchester...

You reluctantly stand once the water cools, and quickly dry yourself before wrapping the jet-black towel around you, tucking it at top swell of your left breast.

Your grateful that the bathroom is attached to your bedroom, and you have to admit that your living arrangement far surpasses your previous one back at the warehouse.

The cool air of the bedroom is refreshing against your heated skin, and you close your eyes for a moment and sigh, basking in the brief moment of simple pleasure.

When you open your eyes, there’s a long black gown draped over the side of your bed. It’s black and lacy—and very low-cut. There’s a note next to it, scribbled handwriting in black ink that simply reads:

‘Wear this.’

You have a very clear flashback of Dean and the lingerie...and then a very vivid flashback of what came afterwards.

You’d really appreciate it if power-hungry demons would quit dressing you for their twisted pleasure.

With a heavy roll of your eyes, you throw the thing on and slip your feet into the matching black heels, then  hastily work your fingers through your damp hair as you glide your way to the floor length mirror propped at the corner of the dimly-lit room.

Your hair is stringy in its wetness, and you look dead-tired, but it’ll do. You’re not trying to impress anyone anyway.

*****

You don’t say a word to Thomas as the two of you clack down the stone halls toward the great hall. If Dean does come for you, you hope he slaughters him first. 

The place is suspiciously lacking other demons. You’d expect it to be  _clamoring_  with the things...

The great hall is...well it lives up to its name. Is vast and open; with an elegant ruby-red rug striping down the middle, and towering columns sandwiched between the floor and high ceiling. There’s long rows of expensive-looking ebony dining tables lining the sides of the room, but they’re all empty, all except one.

Crowley sits at the head of a ridiculously lengthy table, it’s surface littered with trays, plates, and bowls of gourmet-quality food—and your stomach nearly lurches out of your body at the sight of it all.

You hear Thomas’ footfalls fading as he leaves you, and then the King of Hell is motioning for you to join him.

You take your seat at the opposite end of the monstrous table, eyes no doubt the size of your own dinner plate.

“Please,” Crowley says, open palm gesturing at the endless supply of food. “Dig in.”

God, you’re starving. Who cares if it’s poisoned? What a fucking way to go.

Your plate is piled within seconds with heaps of vegetables and a  _succulently_  juicy steak. You stab your fork into the meat, angle your knife to cut—and stop.

“So, just in case all this is poisoned...and I y’know...die in the mashed potatoes...what’s the point of this dinner date?”

“I’m so glad you asked, darling,” Crowley grins, raising a crystal glass of wine to his lips. “And it’s not poisoned, you’re far too pretty to waste in such a classless manner.”

You shrug, sawing into your sirloin like a woman starved. You jam a bite into your mouth and moan, eyes rolling back as your mouth floods with a perfect combination of seasonings.

“Originally,” he starts, “I only needed you for the leverage. And I still do, but I can’t help but think about the future...When Dean is finally taken care of, and order is restored once again.”

You chew slowly, cautious eyes trained on the demon.

“It never hurts to have a...business partner that you can depend on...that you can trust.” He smirks proudly. “That you can... raise a little hell with.” He chuckles.

Your eyes roll again for a completely different reason.

“You’re a smart girl,” he says. “And a  _cunning_  warrior...everything you need to thrive down here.”

He takes another sip of wine and gingerly sets the glass down, licks his thin lips. He braces his elbows against the scarlet table runner, threads his fingers together, and sets his chin atop his knuckles.

You’re suddenly not so hungry anymore.

He says your name then, the rumbled syllables easily rolling off his tongue like he’s said it a thousand times. You didn’t think he even  _knew_  your name; it was always ‘ _darling_ ’ or ‘ _love_ ’...and occasionally... ‘ _bitch_ ’.

“I want you to rule by my side,” he says. “I want you as my queen.”


	14. Chapter 13

“What in the literal hell is  _wrong_  with you?” Christ. He can’t be serious. “What, do I have ‘Queen of Hell’ written on my forehead? I. Don’t. Want. To. Be. Anyone’s. Queen. Do you get that?” **  
**

“Listen––”

“No! You fucking listen to me, dickhead. This entire situation is fucked. I’m not a fucking pawn in your little game. I don’t want to be here. I just want to go home to my relatively normal little life. Not in some fucked up game of Dungeons and Dragons. So you can go fuck yourself.”

You’re positively seething, can feel the blood simmer hot under your cheeks.

Crowley’s face is stony and after several long seconds, you finally detect movement in his features as he runs his tongue over his top row of teeth, sucks them clean.

“Perhaps you’re right,” he says darkly. “Perhaps you’d be better suited as Hell’s  _concubine_.” His eyes are clear, devoid of the black coal you’d been expecting, but they’re dangerously dark.

“Excuse me?”

“My demons...work in a very high-stress environment,” he explains. “You could provide a...certain relief to their work demands.”

You huff out a humorless laugh. “Is that how you handle rejection,  _Your Highness?_  A woman turns you down and you pimp her out to your buds?”

The king smirks, settles back in the baroque-style chair. “I don’t think you quite appreciate what I’m offering you, here.”

“You’re offering me the same damn thing Dean did. And you know it.”

“Ah, but there’s the difference.”

You tilt your head quizzically.

“I’m already king,” he grins. “You’d get all the perks...effective immediately. With Dean, all you get is false hope.”

“I don’t want your perks…” Your face screws into one of disgust. “In fact, I don’t even want to know what those perks are…”

Crowley’s face hardens. “I’ve given you your options––it’s your choice; you can choose to be the highest of the high...or the lowest of the low.” His voice deepens to match his words.

You feel the snap then, feel the tension deep inside  _pop_  as pure adrenaline takes over. It’s almost like your body’s moving on it’s own; you watch as your hand lifts your plate, tilts it down so that the cooling food slicks off the surface to splat against the stone floor. And then you’re standing, the backs of your knees scraping your chair back as your legs straighten. You curl your wrist, bringing the curved edge of the dish against your stomach...and then you  _flick_.

You watch as the circle of black ceramic flies over the length of the table, like a frisbee, toward the demon king’s head––he ducks just in time, and you can feel yourself deflate a little when the dinnerware explodes against the floor instead of the man’s face.

Crowley’s positively  _seething_ , and his eyes glow a  _murderous_  red. You won’t admit it, but you feel the first icy brush of fear trickle down your spine. An eerie silence settles over the room and then two hands suddenly  _clamp_  on to your elbows. Your head swivels at the sudden contact––

There’s a demon at either side, both men, both unfamiliar faces. You don’t take the time to study the creatures, your eyes instead focusing on your red-eyed captor.  

But your temper is still running hot, and your lips move before you can stop them. “That’s it,” you sneer. “Get your lackeys to drag me away before you get your ass kicked by a girl.”

“Oh, darling…” The demon purrs, eyes like fiery embers. “This is for  _your_  protection. Not mine.”

*****

It’s cold in your new bedroom; too cold, and you almost laugh, the phrase ‘When Hell freezes over’ floating somewhere in the back of your mind. You sit cross-legged on your bed, gaze empty as you watch the flickering flame on the sconce on the wall. This is bad, really freakin’ bad. You’re starting to find yourself missing that decrepit old warehouse, your old room with its dingy floor and headachingly dull lanterns…

Fuck. You miss Dean. Maybe not as much as  _your_  Dean;  _human_  Dean–– but you’ll take him as a demon over the smug demon king. God, he’s gonna be pissed at you...You feel your eyes widen––are you afraid of  _disappointing_  him? He  _kidnapped_  you, wrenched you right out of your unconventionally normal life...

What’s happening?

You hear the scuff of expensive shoes against stone outside your door, but you don’t concern yourself with it; you’re too used to demons barging in on you. Old hinges squeal and then the latch clicks as it engages.

Silence.

“We’ve both had some time to cool off,” comes Crowley’s velvety rasp. “I’ve brought you something.” Your eyes stay on the sconce. Crowley sighs.

“I think this may be part of...your irritability.”

You do turn then, and feel your jaw clench at the familiar sight of a blood-filled vial between his curled fingers. “Get that away from me,” you growl, eyes steeled on Hell’s ruler.

“Thomas has told me everything, you know.”

“Shocker.”

Silence.

“Drink, love. Might make you feel better.”

“Are you going to force me?”

“Yes.”

You stand, the onyx lace of your dress bouncing around your calves and feet. The click of your heels bounces off the cold walls as you walk up to him. When you come to a stop, you’re toe-to-toe with the demon, and he smirks as you slip the vial from his fingers.

“Is it your blood?”

“It is.”

You pop the cap and toss the thick liquid back, grimacing at the parching iron. The taste is a little different that Dean’s; richer, more pungent. You think maybe it has something to do with the age of the blood.

“And?” Crowley asks, arches a brow as he waits for your review.

“And I drank it. Need anything else?”

The demon’s face drops into a deep scowl. “You have until tomorrow night to decide. Hell’s queen...or Hell’s bitch. Goodnight, love.” And then he leaves with an echoing click-clack of his heels.

You make your way back to your bed, toe off your shoes before crawling onto the mattress. You leave your dress on, let your head dent into the plush pillow as the effects of Crowley’s blood begin to cloud your brain. It’s not nearly as intense as Dean’s blood, which would immediately zip everything into hyper-focus. This dose is more of a slow pulse, a gradual feeding of enhanced senses.

You see Crowley’s face as you drift to sleep; see his proud, smug smirk and ruby eyes. His face morphs to Dean’s right as you lose consciousness completely; he’s grinning wolfishly and his eyes flicker in color––from green...to black…

To red.


	15. Chapter 14

Your turning stomach tugs you from pleasant, dreamless sleep. You roll over, try to sleep through it, but then another wave of strengthening nausea pops your eyes open – oh god. Yeah, you’re definitely gonna puke. 

You clamp a half-asleep hand over your mouth as your bare feet hit icy stone, and then you’re gasping against your palm, clutching at your gut as the razor-sharp pain of a sudden muscle spasm grips your middle. It’s gone as soon as it starts, so you take the moment to head for the bathroom.

You’ve just made it to the black porcelain toilet when you start to retch. You get both hands in your hair, pull the mess of it to the top of your head while you empty the contents of your stomach. It’s hard to see between the blur of your watering eyes and the darkness of the toilet bowl, but when you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, your flesh is stained with a deep, glistening red.

“Shit,” you breathe to yourself, just as another spasm zips through your torso, pulling yet another rolling ripple of nausea.

Your head is still deep in the toilet bowl when your door squeaks open. Thomas is calling your name, saying something about breakfast - which makes you heave even harder. You hear the clacking of his shoes, feel his looming presence behind you as you groan against the vitrified ceramic.

“Fucking hell,” he says, and then he’s gone; vanished. Seconds later, he reappears with Crowley.

“She was like this when I arrived, sir,” he explains. “She hasn’t eaten, I don’t know how long–”

“Get her some water,” Crowley orders, voice annoyed-gruff. The queasiness is starting to dissipate, your breathing slowing back to normal. You sit back, rest your ass on your heels while you scrub at your mouth.

Thomas holds a clear glass of water toward you and you take it thanklessly, gulp it down in about two seconds before shoving the empty container back into Thomas’ hand.

“So,” Crowley starts. “What is this? Are you pregnant?”

You start to roll your eyes, start to tell him off when something stops you -  _Could_  you be pregnant? Time’s all fucked in your head since your captivity. No, no way - it’s way too soon. You and Dean had sex only what? A couple of days ago?

“I don’t think so,” Thomas chimes. You look up at him from your spot on the bathroom floor.

“And, why is that?” Crowley asks, voice flat.

“I mean, I don’t think that’s what this is…I think she’s rejecting your blood.”   
You whip your head toward Crowley, who’s working his jaw, eyes narrowing as he considers the demon’s theory.

“Mr. Winchester had been dosing her with his own blood and, well – a knight’s blood  _is_  known to be much more potent than any other demon’s - besides a prince’s of course.”

“I’m more than a knight,” Crowley points out. “I’m the bloody  _king_.”

“Of course,” Thomas says, “but Dean bears the mark - the mark of an  _ancient_  demon.”

Crowley’s eyes harden with a spark of jealous competition.

Thomas continues, “Her body may simply not be accepting your blood… _However_.” When you look at the demon again, his face is lit with scheming hope. “I happen to know that Dean keeps a  _generous_  supply of his own in his office.”

“No,” you say, stern. “No, I’m not-”

“Get it,” Crowley commands, voice icy. “Take all the demons you need.” The king’s face goes lax with dark determination.

“Bring me Dean Winchester’s blood."

You pick at your eggs, still clad in your lacy black gown from the night before, a little amused that you’re being served something so normal in Hell. Shouldn’t they be feeding you someone’s guts or something?

Crowley sits the long table-distance away from you, a bleak reminder of last night’s dinner fiasco, and drums his fingers against the sleek surface.

“Eat,  _girl_ ,” the demon king growls. “You need your fuel…And might I remind you of the answer I’ll be needing in just a few hours…” His mouth twists into a sick-satisfied smirk.

You’ve long lost your sass; too weak from this morning’s illness, too exhausted, too  _defeated_  from this entire situation. So you nod, eyes dropped to the greasy mess on your plate.

The heavy doors of the hall suddenly, violently swing open, thundering into the stone walls at either side. Thomas and an unfamiliar demon stand side-by-side, chests heaving from presumed sprinting, eyes mirroring each other’s wild panic.

Crowley stands at the abrupt commotion, turns his back to you as he faces his demons.

“The u-unit you stationed,” Thomas stammers. They’ve all been slaughtered,  _butchered_.

The slightly shorter, blonde demon to his right speaks up, “The warehouse has been evacuated - the place is wiped clean.”

Thomas nods, frantic and breathless. “He’s coming, my King.”

Your heart simultaneously leaps and  _freezes_  at the news.

“Dean Winchester is coming.”


	16. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean arrives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while...but it's back!

The explosion is distant, but strong enough to rattle your plate. Your blood freezes.

“He doesn’t know the the portal’s location!” Crowley bellows. He throws an accusing look at you that narrows your eyes. 

“Like I’d tell him even if I knew!” 

“He doesn’t have to know,” Thomas interjects. “The Mark could lead him right to it.”

“Fuck!” Crowley hisses, jaw working as he thinks. Your brain fogs over as he starts to bark out orders to secure Hell’s entrance. This is real. This is…Dean’s really fucking  _doing_  this. You hear your name and then Thomas is marching over to you, wrapping a massive hand around your arm as he roughly pulls you to your feet. 

You instinctively struggle, jerking against him - 

“We have to go - you’re not safe here.” 

“Fine,” you bite, yanking your arm free, “but I can walk by myself.” 

*****

Your shoes echo loudly in the dark stone maze of Hell’s halls. It’s an effort to keep up with his pace, your shorter legs unable to match his long strides. You’ve counted twenty-eight wall sconces by the time you reach the ebony double doors. You almost want to laugh when Thomas retrieves an old-fashioned key from his suit jacket, but a distant scream quickly quells the instinct. The heavy doors unlock with a twist of his wrist, and then he’s ushering you inside with a hand splayed against your back.

A quick glance around the room tells you this is Crowley’s office. It’s aggravatingly extravagant with its ornate furniture and Renaissance style paintings. Your eyes roll at the self portrait proudly hanging behind the leather office chair.

The doors secure with a click, but Thomas’s wild eyes warn you that you’re far from safe. The demon’s jaw clenches and unclenches in a pulsing rhythm as he fixes his gaze on the room’s entrance; waiting. 

A woman’s shriek sounds from somewhere down the hall - too close.

“We’re fucked,” you breathe, defeat settling in your gut. 

“No, we’re not!” Thomas snaps. “Reinforcements are coming.” 

You don’t respond to that, part of you hoping he’s right…part of you hoping he isn’t. There’s a twisted sense of longing rippling in your belly that seems to spark stronger every time you try to dismiss it. You  _can’t_  miss him, can’t want him. He isn’t your savior - if anything, he’ll murder you in a blind rage for daring to leave.

Another muffled boom yanks you from your thoughts. It sounds like actual artillery. Where would they even get -

“Under the desk!” Thomas orders. You shoot him a fiery glance, but you don’t budge.

“Now is  _not_  the time to be stubborn. Get. Under. The desk,” he growls through welded teeth.

A sound reminiscent of exploding brick is what convinces you to heed the demon’s command. You all but dive into the small space underneath the the onyx surface. The desk has a back panel to it that reaches all the way to the floor, effectively caging you. It’s a minor comfort against the horror unfolding just beyond those heavy doors.

There’s a breath of silence before a deafening  _CRACK -_ it almost sounds like a gunshot - but the sound of heavy boots thumping across stone tells you that the entrance to your safe room has just been breached. 

You’re left defenseless, cowering under a fucking desk as you listen to the scuffle beyond. You can hear the grunts, the breaths of exertion - and then you hear Thomas give a choked cry before a heavy thud hits the cold floor. There’s a disturbing sliding sound, like a body being dragged across the floor - Thomas is dead.

The room falls silent then, save for your own pulse pounding in your ears. You start to move when you hear the approaching footfalls. You clamp a hand over your mouth, too terrified to breathe.

One rasp of a boot later and a raven-haired man is crouching before you, thin lips twisted into a gratified smirk. 

“Found her!” he bellows, chin lifting as he sets he gaze on the room’s entrance. 

Your mouth is dry, veins thrumming with adrenaline. Before you have a chance to plead with the man, he gets rough grip around your elbow, heaving you out of the dark space with effortless ease.

“Let me go!” you grit, trying to break free of the stranger’s iron hold. The man chuckles at your weak attempt, fingers tightening-

“You heard her,” a voice rumbles deep. “Let her go.” 

Your eyes float up to the source of the command, and you ice over at the sight of him standing there; shoulders relaxed, arms loose and lax at his sides.

Dean.

The demon guard makes a disgruntled sound, but his hand finally leaves you as he steps away.

“Out,” Dean barks, eyes glued to you.

“Yes, sir,” the demon mumbles before gliding past you and into the hall. 

The sounds of warfare continue, but they’re distant - and you’re not quite sure if that’s comforting or not. 

“You came…” your voice is dry; wrecked from fear and exhaustion.

“I did,” Dean nods, then tilts his head. “ _You_  left.”

“I…I didn’t-”

“You left with  _him_ ,” he seethes, jerking his chin toward the now-empty spot where the demon must have crumpled to the floor. “If you were anyone else, I’d have you executed for  _treason._ ” 

“I’m sorry, Dean - I…I was scared and…and…I dunno, I just didn’t know what to do!” Your eyes are wide and pleading, mouth agape as panicked breaths punch from your lungs.

Dean takes a step forward. You match his movement with a step backward. 

“You left me.”

Another step.

“Dean, no-”

Another step.

“Went behind my  _back_.” 

Another step.

“Please, I’m  _sorry!”_

Your ass hits the edge of the heavy desk.

“Show me,” Dean says, eyes inking over.

“Show me just how  _sorry_  you are.”


	17. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings for Dub/Non-con

You’re dizzy; mind swirling with a mixture of fear and something you desperately don’t want to acknowledge.

“I…I don’t. Please.” Your eyes are wide as you gape up at him, heart pumping wildly as his onyx gaze bores into you.

Muffled screams sound in the distance, but there isn’t even a flicker of concern in the twin pools of black in his eyes.

“Dean, come on-”

“Show. Me.”

“I said I’m sorry, okay? Look, I was freaked - I just…I didn’t know…” You drag a hand through your hair and let your gaze fall to his brown work boots. “What do you want me to do?” Your eyes float back to his, that familiar sizzle of anger heating your blood. “Grovel? Like a goddamned peasant?”

You immediately regret your words when Dean tilts his head to the left, lips twitching in the beginnings of a sneer. He’s close enough that you can feel the heat of his thighs bleed into yours, and the way he’s _towering_  over you has your heart threatening to burst from your chest.

The slap bounces off the cold walls, and prickling pain blooms hot across your cheek, the force of it knocking your head to the side.

“You got any idea how much it hurts me to hurt you?” His voice is soft, eyes green, brows furrowed in some parody of concern.

Your eyes drop to his burgundy covered forearm, where you just know the Mark is pulsing with excitement. “Right,” you grit. “You must  _hate_  it.”

Dean licks, then purses his lips in thought. “You’re not appreciating just how  _lucky_  you are.” His voice has dropped considerably, a razor-sharp edge of warning in his words. “Y’hear those screams? That could be  _you._ ”

A comeback starts to form somewhere in the back of your mind, but you quickly lose your wit when a big hand closes around your bicep.

His eyes sweep the length of you before settling back on yours. “Pretty dress.”

And then, with effortless strength, he’s wrenching you around, wide fingered hand at your back forcing you down over the sleek black desk. Your palms smack against it, millimeters away from cracking your chin against the polished surface.

You try to push up, muscles straining, but his hold is strong.

“Dean!” you bite, light-headed as he runs his hands up your back, then drags them back down, thick fingers possessively closing around your hips.

“You get all dressed up for Crowley?”

“Dean, stop! Let me go-”

“Ain’t really your style,” he says, and you can feel him gathering up the lacy hem of it. Fear churns in your gut as he hitches the fabric up your thighs, heavy hand holding it bunched at the small of your back. You’re still very much aware of the broken door and how anyone would be able to just  _see-_

“God, come  _on_ -” You grit, jaw tight. “Quit-”

The crack of a rough palm against your ass rips a yelp from your throat. You can feel fiery sting redden the skin under the sheer material of your panties, and you barely have a chance to take a breath before Dean’s wrenching the material down to settle around your thighs.

“The hell?!  _Dean-_ ”

“Y’know I oughtta beat ya for betrayin’ me like that.” He palms at the sting. “But I think an old-fashioned spanking should do the trick.”

“What?! No, wait-“

_SMACK_

Fresh pain blooms hot over the right globe of your ass, and reflex moves your hands behind you in an attempt to block the next blow, but Dean quickly captures your wrists in an iron grip, pins them to your back.

_SMACK_

The sound of it bounces off the walls, and your jaw clamps tights at the raw pain.

“How many ya think?” He’s released your wrists so he can get both hands on your ass now, kneading and squeezing. You curse at the slick gathering between your thighs, try not to arch back into his callused grip as you reach to curl your fingers around the edge of the desk

_SMACK_

“I asked you a question.”

“Fuck, I don’t know. That’s enough…Please - it  _hurts._ ”

“Oh, c’mon…Don’t be a wuss. That was just four.” Blunt nails drag over smooth curves. You shiver. “How about…a nice…even…twenty? Ten on each side.”

You swallow. You know you’re not getting out of this - and you really should count yourself lucky that he isn’t  _gutting_  you right now.

“O-okay,” you concede. “But - not hard. Please.”

A deep chuckle bubbles up from his chest. “Oh,  _baby,_ ” he says. “You’ll be lucky if you can fuckin’ sit down after this.”

*

Less than a minute later, you’re gasping against the black varnish; aching and  _raw_. Each blow had increased in strength to the point that you could actually feel the  _muscle_ behind each strike. By the time it was over, pained tears were rolling down your cheeks and your ass  _throbbed_.

“Lesson learned?” Dean asks, palms flat on the desk. The denim of his jeans rub at the soreness with the way he’s bent over you, lips grazing the shell of your ear.

“Ye-yeah,” you pant at the unrelenting, tingling heat. “Will you  _please_  let me go now?”

“Uh,  _yeah_ , sure. In just a second.”

Leather pulls through metal.

Fabric rustles.

_Shit._

“Fuck, Dean - no! Not here-”

But he gets a hands tight on your hip, fingernails biting into the soft flesh there. You jolt forward with a gasp when warm fingers swipe between your legs, easily slipping through the gathered wetness.

“Damn,” he mutters, and then you feel the hard, smooth press of his cock-

Your knuckles lock around the sharp edge of the desk as Dean pushes in, the thickness of him scratching a deep itch you didn’t know you had. You clench and ripple around him, chest tightening at the teeth-gritting  _fullness._  He starts to thrust, one hand still plastered to your hip, the other braced on the desk beside you.

You can feel the way he’s folded over you, feel his heat sink into your back. His thighs bump into the backs of yours with every push of his hips, and you bite your lip to keep the moans from rising to your throat.

His pace quickly rises from steady to hungry, enough force behind his thrusts to make your hips bounce uncomfortably against the hard edge of the desk, your cheek sliding over the glossy surface. He has a bruising grip on the fleshy curve of your hip as he fucks harder and faster, and you thank whoever’s listening that he can’t see the way your eyes roll back every time he grinds into you.

He’s grunting now; the deep, primal sounds pulling at the rushing orgasm coiling in your belly. You don’t want to come, not like this - not after he humiliated you… _hurt_  you - but god, you need it to the point that you’re damned near  _desperate_  for it.

You sink your teeth deeper into your lip as he jackhammers into you, a string of whispered curses pouring from his lips.

“Come on, baby,” he mumbles, breathless. “Come undone for me.”

You’re already tensing all over, damp under his heat and your own arousal. “Please,” you hear yourself murmur, vision hazing.

“Come  _on,_ ” he grits, pistons faster. The angle of your hips bumps your clit against the hard furniture, each jolt sending a burst of heat flooding your veins, heating your cheeks.

Too weak to fight it any longer, you suck in one last gulp of air before you let yourself fall, keening behind clenched teeth as you jerk and twitch between Dean and the desk he has you pinned against.

He follows exactly seven thrusts later, teeth tearing at lace as he bites into your shoulder.

Dean lazily humps into you as his orgasm ebbs, breath heating your sweat-damp neck as you both come down.

He rights your dress and panties when he pulls out, uncaring of the thick wetness rolling down your thighs.

Your ass still stings; aches down to the muscle. You comb a shaky hand through your wild hair, brain still sex-fogged.

“So,” Dean starts, fastening his belt. “We’re just gonna…chalk all this up to an error in judgement, hmm?” He steps up to you, captures your chin between knuckle and thumb. “Not gonna happen again…is it?” He ducks down to meet your eyes.

“N-no. I’m sorry.”

He leans in to kiss you then, soft and lazy. “Good.” He smiles, takes your hand in his. “Come on, I wanna show you something.”


	18. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean Winchester isn’t just any Demon - He’s a Knight of Hell. An ambitious knight at that. He wants the throne…and you by his side.

“Dean, wait-” You stiffen and freeze - Dean pauses, and you can see the twitch of irritation in his wide shoulders as he slowly turns back around. “Crowley…” Your jaw clenches and you swallow. “He was…he tried to give me his blood - I mean he did. He made me drink it.” You wet your lips and huff out a little breath, features drawing at the memory of muscle spasms and puking. “It made me really fucking sick.”

You can’t read his face - there’s no emotion to it - he just tilts his head and looks at you. “Well,” he says then, smirk blooming, deepening the fine lines sprouting from the corners of his unblinking eyes. “Guess it’s a good thing I brought you this.” He pulls out the little glass vial of thick crimson from the breast pocket of his burgundy overshirt. You immediately tense up at the sight of it, and your stomach churns.

“I-I don’t…I didn’t mean-”

He wordlessly unscrews the lid and extends his arm. His eyes are basil-green, but hard, and you’re not stupid enough to defy him, not now - so you take it.

You squeeze your eyes shut as you down the thing, let the copper-rich taste of it flood your tongue.

“Better?” he asks, and you can’t answer him because it’s hitting now. Your eyes rush into hyperfocus at such a rate that you think you can actually feel the blow in your pupils, and god, you can feel everything; the thump of your pulse in your wrists and neck, and the pounding ache still lingering between your legs that seems to drum in time with your pumping heart.

“Not really.”

*

 

You follow Dean through the winding corridors, heeled feet and calves quickly starting up a dull throb with the struggle to match his long, fluid strides. You’re jittery with the high, feels like every cell quakes with the energy - but the adrenaline almost feels  _good_ , feels exhilarating.

It’s beyond concerning how well Dean can navigate around this place, around Hell. It doesn’t settle well in your gut.

You come to yet another set of double iron doors - these intact. Two stoic-faced men, demons rather, are positioned on either side, and after a curt nod from both, they pull the doors open, granting the two of you entrance.

The first thing you notice is the blast of icy air. The second is the  _awful_  stench - smells like rotting flesh and blood and smoke and death. You press the back of your hand to your mouth, can already feel bile trying to rise. The last thing you notice are the black iron bars - prison. This is a prison.

You squint through spaces between the bars, then your eyes bloom wide-

They’re all a bloodied, mangled mess - the damned souls. A stringy-haired woman stands shackled to the dewy stone behind her, a rusted metal rod impaled through her chest. Her eyes are wide and vacant, mouth gaping as a trickle of blood slips down her chin. She moans low enough that you figure it might just be a death rattle - but then, right in front of you, the rod’s gone, and she’s whole again - unscathed. She scampers to the edge of the cell, bony fingers curling around grimy iron-

“Please!” she screeches, grey-blue eyes crazed and piercing. “You have to help me!” She gets an arm between the bars, tries to claw at your sleeve, but you’re quick to recoil.

A gentle hand curves around your elbow, pulling. “Don’t stand so close,” Dean says, low and hushed. You nod and swallow, heart pounding and pulsing in your temples as you continue down the aisle. There’s a chorus of deranged murmurs permeating the damp, frigid air, scattered screams slicing through at random.

You realize then that you’ve never truly heard the sounds of Hell until this very moment.

Your eyes stay hooked onto the wet ground as you walk - you can’t look at the man with the severed hands, or the woman holding her guts in with her own small hands. You can’t watch the horrific torture play on a loop over and over and over-

Dean stops suddenly, and you nearly crash into him. He’s slow to turn, the thick heft of his shoulders blocking what little light illuminates the room. A soft gleam shines against the side of his face; temple to stubbled jawline, the rest hidden under pitchy dark.

“You know they deserve this, don’t you?” he says; voice gravelly-deep. You don’t answer, can’t - can’t imagine what kind of wrong justifies this kind of horror. “They weren’t… good people,” he explains. “Anyone who ends up down here-”

“Like you?” you whisper, eyes sliding to where you think his are. “All those years ago…when you traded your life for your brother’s. You deserved this?”

He doesn’t respond for a long second, just stands as a muscled wall in front of you. “That was different,” he bites. His voice is lower now; colder.

“How?”

“These aren’t deals,” he says, and you can see the darkened silhouette of his head jerk toward the cells. “These are -  _were_  - killers, predators of the worst kind…” He breathes out a heavy sigh, the sound so wrong against tormented screams and groans. “This is justice,” he says. “Fair…balanced…justice.”

“Why?” you croak, voice cracked and shaky. “Why are we down here?”

Another pregnant pause thickens the icy air between you. “I’ll show ya,” he says, and you swear you can see the gleam of ivory teeth against the murky dark. You hear the rasp of slick stone under the rubber tread of his boots as he turns forward again.

Exactly four steps later, Dean halts in front of the next cell - you still just behind and to the right of him. A hazy gleam of light streaks across a puddle pooled in the center of iron enclosure, and there’s a reflection of suited legs. You drag your eyes up the length of the stocky figure facing the wall; noting the wrinkled and ripped fabric along the back of the pant legs and jacket.

“Thomas?” you whisper, your buzzing head trying to fit the pieces together. He was dead - right? He died in the ambush…

The man turns slowly, pudgy cheeks smudged with dirt and dried blood. Brown glassy eyes pin to yours for a long second, then flick to Dean, inking over as they do. Your breath catches as your own gaze slides to the demon beside you, muscles stiffening at the icy curl of his lips.

“Well,” Dean starts, throaty, “just look at you now.”

Thomas doesn’t speak, just glares an onyx glare into his captor. Glowers at him like Dean might evaporate if he stares long enough. “Nothing to say?” Dean taunts.

Oily black fades back to brown as Thomas looks back to you. He murmurs your name, takes a few careful steps forward until only worn iron stands between you. There’s a softness to his features, in the chocolate hues of his eyes; it’s remorse.

You almost want to break, to forget what he’s done - but Dean’s gritty baritone quickly slices through the moment of compassion. “Look at him,” he rumbles, voice as cold as the stone surrounding you. “Look at the traitor who betrayed you.” You swallow, eyes flitting between the two men, the two demons. “You trusted him,” Dean continues. “Maybe even…found a friendship? You dropped your guard for him, didn’t you?” Dean shifts closer, braces a forearm against the bars. “And look what happened…”

His words sink into you like fiery needles, and you feel the rage bubble up into a full boil. “You deceived me,” you mumble, voice low and breathy.

“You didn’t deserve this,” Dean coaxes, and he’s right; you don’t deserve this, any of it. It was bad enough before - abducted and held captive in that old warehouse with Dean - but Thomas had promised you escape, he’d promised  _freedom_ -

And you’d  _literally_  ended up in Hell, under  _his_  deception, of course.

Dean’s rumbling voice doesn’t stop its endless stream into your ear. “Give him what  _he_  deserves… Don’t you want to hurt him, baby? Don’t you want him to  _pay?”_

You set your jaw and straighten, eyes tacked to the traitor in front of you as Dean’s words infuse themselves into every cell. You’re nodding before you even realize it, the simmering heat licking under your skin and settling behind your eyes.

The hardness in your expression seems to startle Thomas because he’s backing away, palms raised and facing you in caution. “Wait,” he says, gasping out a nervous breath of a laugh. “Y-you vowed to protect me,” he stumbles. “Remember? You told me you had… connections.” You feel Dean’s cool gaze slip down to you, but you only smile.

“I did,” you confirm, stepping closer so you can wrap your hands around the icy bars, lips held tight in a cold smirk. “I lied.”

“Please,” Thomas breathes then, brows slanted with his plea. “You must understand - my loyalty laid with Crowley - I had to.” You clench your jaw hard enough to crack. “Please,” the demon begs again. “I know you…I know your heart. I was wrong - please.” He takes a shuddering breath. “Please forgive me.” He smiles then, smiles sad and kind like it’s some kind of embellishment to the pardon; a finishing touch. He thinks he can play you, must think you’re still so  _easily_  manipulated. Somewhere deep inside you know it’s the blood, you know it’s the high - but the seething heat feels so organic, feels so natural and  _good_  pumping through your veins, weaving itself into your simmering anger.

“Kill him,” you say, eyes steeled and unmoving, voice cold.

“No!” Thomas bellows, the sound punching through the dank air. He tries to draw back, but Dean is lightning fast - the First Blade already in hand and driving through his chest with the sickeningly wet sound of ripping tissue. The demon’s eyes blow wide as a bright orange light flashes and sparks under his skin. He thuds to the floor as soon as Dean jerks the weapon free. The two of you exchange a glance then, and you feel a rush of exhilaration whirl through you. The traitor hadn’t died by your hands, sure - but he had by your words. A decadent swirl of power curls in your gut, and blooms outwards until it buzzes at your skull. Dean seems to notice as he looks at you, face cracking into a knowing grin.

The sound of clapping hands breaks the moment apart, and you turn your head at the noise to see two hands slipped between the bars, slowly cracking together in a lazy rhythm. You move with Dean, taking the four steps to the next cell. The prisoner grins. There’s a binding link branded into the back of his right hand; he won’t be smoking out.

“I win,” Dean beams, twirling the ruby coated weapon in his hand.

Crowley’s really no worse for wear, still decked in his business suit, and looks quite at home in his damp little square. “The  _Mark_  wins,” Crowley corrects, smug as ever.

“Fair enough,” Dean says with shallow shrug. “Either way…” He brings the blade up, watches as thick crimson slicks down the bony length of it. He grins, obsidian eyes flicking back to Hell’s defeated ruler. “You lose.”

Crowley hums at that, unwavering eyes notably fastened to Dean instead of the blood-caked weapon that could so  _easily_  end it all with a single move. “So,” he starts, smile grim. “What’s the plan, hmm? A little torture, perhaps? Or am I going to spark and sizzle right here?”

Dean purses his lips, tilts his head. “That depends.”

Crowley squints. “On?”

“Swear your loyalty to me,” Dean says, voice like steel, “and I might have a place for you on this court.”

The Scotsman scoffs at that, thin lips pulling into a sneer. “Serve a  _Winchester?_  You’re out of your bloody mind.”

Dean’s gaze flicks to the Blade, then back to Crowley. “You have twelve hours to decide.”

*

Word has made it back to Dean that the strike’s been a success. The screams have died; Hell is quiet. Survivors are secure; bound and caged. All that’s left is clean up and reconstruction - and plans for the new regime.

Dean won.

The stone is cold underneath your damp feet, the bathroom’s air thick and humid from the steam. Towel tucked over the swell of your tits, you wipe the damp fog from the mirror and gaze at your own reflection in the cleared arc.

Your skin is flushed pink, and your hair lays in soaked, dripping strings against your cheeks. Your eyes are still a little glassy, head still thrumming with the high.

You should feel fear, right? You should feel some element of apprehension because Dean (with the help of a certain curse branded onto his arm) has effectively taken over  _Hell_. There’s no stopping him now - no stopping the Mark. Every demon serves him now; both underground and topside. He’ll surely have the others killed.

And though all of this skitters through your mind - you don’t feel scared, don’t feel dread; you just feel…safe? Secure? But that isn’t right, you  _know_  it isn’t. You search for the anger, the panic; anything. You wait for it to bubble up in the deepest pit of your gut - but nothing comes.

In the bedroom, Crowley’s former chamber, Dean sits in the roche chair nestled against the corner. He’s got one ankle propped on the opposite knee as he sips aged whiskey from a crystal glass. His eyes light when he sees you standing at the threshold, and he sets the glass down with a deep thunk as he rises.

“Feeling better?” he smirks as he walks to you.

“I…I dunno,” you say, and it’s the honest truth. “Glad to get out of that goddamned dress.”

Dean’s eyes flick over you, and he runs a thumb across the full cushion of his lower lip. “Me too.”

You wet your lips as he shuffles closer, and the heat’s already spreading through your belly by the time his hands threading through your shower-damp hair, and then he’s kissing you.

It isn’t rough or demanding like usual - it’s slow and hot and skin-meltingly soft. You get a grip on his wrists as his tongue knocks your lips apart, already panting into the heat of his mouth. Your towel goes slack and drops to the floor, and Dean doesn’t waste the opportunity to drop from your grasp, hooking a heavy arm around your waist to pull you flush against him.

God, he feels good against your tits; hard and warm - and there’s a delicious friction that buzzes down straight to your cunt. He’s licking into you slow and easy, the spicy burn of good whiskey thick on your tongue.

A feather brush of callused fingertips drag down your belly, and then he’s cupping your pussy in his heavy palm. You gasp into him when a thick finger slips through your dampening folds, slides up and down in long strokes - long enough for the scratchy pad to rasp  _deliciously_  over your clit. Your lips break away when he suddenly  _shoves_ that finger deep inside, knuckle-deep; wriggling and swirling. His palm is rough and hot, sealed against velvety soft flesh, and you groan into the warm cotton of his chest.

“You know,” he starts, the deep rumble of voice vibrating right against your mouth, “a good queen would kneel for her king.”

Oh.  _Oh-_

And you do, you’re sinking right down to the chilly stone, his wet finger leaving a sticky smear up the length of your stomach as you descend. Your heart’s thumping loud as you gape up at him, loud enough for you to hear, and your hands shake as they reach up to work his belt open. You nuzzle into him as you unfasten him, tongue him right through the thick denim of his jeans, and fuck, you can feel him twitching-

Dean gets impatient, shoves his jeans down to his muscled thighs, then rakes his fingers through your hair to clear it from your face. His eyes dark in the dim light, but you think you can see the whites of them.

You don’t bother stroking, don’t bother teasing - just grip at the base and cram his semi-hardness into your mouth. Your pussy clenches at the salty heft of him, and you groan garbled little noises around him as you swallow him down.

Dean grunts, pulls a little at your hair, and his hips lurch at your assault. You make a wet choking noise as the head of him punches at the back of your throat, but you quickly recover - sealing your lips tight and rubbing your tongue along the underside of the swelling shaft before you settle into a quick, bobbing rhythm.

He’s dragging in shallow bursts of air as you work your mouth over him, blunt nails scraping over scalp in a way that has you tingling all over. You get both hands around the root of him, twisting and gently squeezing at what doesn’t fit inside as you drive your lips back and forth.

Little moans begin to lace with Dean’s sharp gasps as you work him tighter and faster, and it makes you swell with giddy pride at how good you’re making him feel. You bring a hand up to drag a thumb over his nuts, and you can feel them surge, can feel his dick twitch against your tongue.

He slicks out of you with a snarl, jerks you up by the wrists and shoves you a little too hard towards the bed. The back of your knees smack painfully against the footboard.

“Stay on your back,” he grits. “Close your eyes and open your mouth.”

The order sends a fresh burst of heat erupting in your belly, and you’re quick to obey; feet planted flat against the comforter, thighs wide and mouth gaping. You’re expecting the press of knees against your shoulders, expecting the heavy slide of him between your lips-

But you’re met with heavy, bitter-wet flesh; salt and copper-

Blood.

Your eyes spring open to find his muscled forearm sealed over your mouth-

“Drink.” His eyes have oiled over, and you gasp through your nose, a streak of that familiar icy fear cutting through searing heat. “Shh…” He smooths your wild hair back with his free hand. “Easy, honey. Just drink.”

There’s a wave of calm at the softness of his words, of his voice - so you run your tongue against him, can feel the open slice of his flesh where the blood is sluicing out. It’s good. You feel  _good._ Your skin’s already buzzing, nerves tingling, and you seal your lips around the gash-

And suck.

He moans then, bites at his lip as he watches you lap at his offering. You moan right back, melting into the high. Your pulse is loud, so loud, and you can hear his too - thumping out of sync with yours. Dean shifts then, smearing the wet over your lips as he settles between your legs.

“Keep drinking,” he rasps, and then you feel the slick head of his dick pressing against you. Your legs fall wider; an eager invitation, and then he braces his palm next to your head and  _shoves_  in with a fierce thrust, groaning at the hot, wet constriction of your cunt around him. You cry out at the exquisite burn, still licking at the laceration that isn’t nearly as deep as before-

He’s healing.

You fit your tongue into it, desperate to soak up whatever’s left before you’re cut off entirely-

“Thirsty girl,” Dean grins, and then - fuck, then he’s pumping hard and fast, and you get your hands on him; on gripping his bicep, the other clamping down over his fingers to anchor yourself to him as he fucks into you.

You’re panting by the time he pulls his arm away, can feel the slick smear of blood over your lips and chin. You drag your tongue through the last dregs of it.

Dean hefts himself up to his knees, gets a hard grip of the back of yours so that your calves drape over his hands-

And  _god_ , the angle - he’s hitting deep, right where you need him; every thrust ratcheting the pleasure higher until there’s nothing but the steady buzz in your blood, and the wet, heavy drag of his cock. Your teeth clack together as your orgasm rushes near.

It feels like you’re floating; the way your sweat-slick skin thrums and your head fogs. Your knuckles blanch as they scrunch at the plush comforter. You get three fingers on your clit, rubbing in tight, hard circles-

And then you’re coming in thick waves; hips lurching, thighs taut and shaking as you  _clamp_  down-

A strangled snarl and Dean’s following; thrusts erratic, but still snapping on autopilot as hot spurt after spurt jets inside. His head tips back, chest heaving as his hips roll to a stop. He drops your legs, then pulls out of you with a slow drag.

He knees his way off the bed, then bends down to scoop your towel off the floor, cleaning himself with a single swipe, then tosses the towel to you so you can wipe up the sticky mess between your legs, then double it over to scrub at your mouth.

You stare at the ceiling, try to find patterns in the rock as your blood hums.

The mattress rocks, sheets rustle, and Dean helps you burrow underneath. He’s naked now, bare chest molded against your back, cock soft against the back of your thigh. He drapes a heavy arm over your waist, thumb swiping over a patch of skin under your tits. Warm lips press against the side of your neck, and you smile.


End file.
